


Emissions

by illicio



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A Brief Stint In Galra Captivity, Dialogue Heavy, Explicitly Stupid Explicit Content, M/M, Post-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Kerberos Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-18 22:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8178611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illicio/pseuds/illicio
Summary: "How long were you alone?"
"Eh. On and off."
"Exluding supply runs."
Dubious silence.
"Not helping," said Shiro.

  ‡‡‡‡‡
See also: a lot about Shiro and Keith and not much in the way of everyone else, although they are and will continue to be mentioned.  Mostly Lance.  Lance is mentioned a lot.  (Because I think his relationship with Keith is particularly important even if I'm not focusing on it.)  Summary subject to occasional change.





	1. Nebula

**Author's Note:**

> "Mature" has been selected for now despite nothing too mature happening here. The rating will spike once I finish editing the other parts but I didn't want to mislead anybody who might like to keep their reading PG. Additional tags will be added as the subjects come up.

 

 

 

"Why 'Shiro'?"

Shiro inhaled, pulling the barbell toward his chest. He pushed up on exhale and cast a glance toward the source.

The cadet slouched forward on the adjacent bench, a slash of black in an otherwise sterile room, distinctly not in uniform—which, fair enough, this _was_ the gym. He peered at Shiro, arms draped over his split knees; a bottle dangling between his index and middle fingers; his hair damp and a thin sheen of sweat specking his skin, breath yet to settle from his own workout.

Behind him, on the wall, a placard: _Don't monopolise the equipment._

Shiro's mouth twitched at a smile.

Ah, well. Let him sit. No harm done. Inhale-pull; push-exhale, pause. "Why 'Keith'?"

Keith frowned. He straightened his posture and lifted the bottle to his mouth, seizing the cap to snap it open with his teeth.

"Why the face?" said Shiro, who was innocent.

If it was possible to condense condescension and boil it down to one reply, it would be this one: "Uh, 'cause it's my name?" Steamed with _you know what I meant._

Which he did, but this cadet was bad at using his words. Inhale-pull; push-exhale, pause. "Mine's not?"

Water shot from the bottle. If Shiro had been closer he might have felt the splash damage: Keith tipped his head and drank like he swallowed with his skin. Liquid poured down his chin, splitting into two streams—one that jumped from jaw-to-chest and another that bled down his neck. Together, they worked toward a wet front. Hard to believe any had gone in his mouth.

"Dry spot," said Shiro. "Lower left." Inhale-exhale, pause.

Keith ignored him, thunking the bottle on the bench with an empty _plap._ "Isn't your full one." He dragged the back of his hand across his lips, reaffixing his stare. "Not even the first."

"Well..." Couldn't argue that. Inhale-exhale, pause. "I didn't exactly pick it."

Shiro completed two more reps before the silence broke, cautious: "...what?"

Inhale-exhale, pause. "It was hard to pronounce."

"Takashi Shirogane?" Keith arched an eyebrow. "That's easy."

Inhale—  
"I thought so, but— _nh-_ "  
—exhale—  
"-guess not."  
—pause—  
—pause—  
—pause—  
—he lifted the barbell back into its brackets, where it belonged.

Lifting wasn't prime-time for conversation, but he didn't mind humouring this particular cadet. His was a special case.

Overview: orphan. Summary: passed between hands like a destructive pet adopted by those who knew little—if anything—about caring for it; possessed by brilliant talent. General consensus: aloof and difficult; landed in the Galaxy Garrison by virtue of aptitude, not attitude.

It wasn't a fair conclusion. The kid took well to iron-clad rules and respected solid decisions; demonstrated no issue upholding the Code of Conduct (and if Shiro were the betting sort, he'd wager his hard-earned status that he'd never so much as glanced at it); and might have flown through every class with all-around solid marks if not for one problem: he wasn't the only cadet in existence.

Keith forgot things. Rules, in particular, although not the Garrison's. He forgot specific rules set by individual officers and instructors, who had particular preferences he didn't understand. They were there to enforce the established rules and teach standard material, so why should their preferences matter? Why couldn't they just do their damn jobs?

Shiro sat up and swept his hair from his eyes. Keith watched with his head cocked just-so. What, exactly, was he looking at? What did he see? Certainly didn't feel like he saw his sweat-slick senior more than he was searching, grasping for something far beyond them, long out of their reach.

"Sooo, like...Takashiroganymede or something?"

"Wh-" The word vanished, erupting in half-a-laugh-sputter. Was that...a joke? Judging by the faint-but-self-satisfied curve lounging on Keith's mouth...it was definitely...something that somewhat resembled a joke.

It was also progress. "Way, way too good! Worse."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"By how much?"

Solemn, as if speaking at the memorial service for a dearly departed friend who happened to be named Proper Pronunciation: " _Tuhcashy Shyrogain._ "

Silence stretched in what might have been awe. Then, horror: "No way."

"Way. I'm lucky _Shiro_ made it out alive."

"You didn't correct them?"

"At first I did, but I gave up."

"Why?" Like he didn't understand the concept.

Shiro stifled his smile. "It wasn't that important. Besides, I kinda liked having a nickname."

He saw connections being made; ideas being had—thoughts snapping like errant electrons that couldn't decide where they wanted to be, each one sparking in his eyes. Trouble was Shiro didn't know where any of them were going. Keith failed to enlighten him, but he accomplished standing and snatching his empty bottle from the bench, heading for the exit. His brows jumped while he turned, speechless, following Keith with his stare because that Was Not How Conversations Were Supposed To End.

Five steps later, Keith said: "Well, m'gonna hit the shower."

"Oookay." Did that just happen?

The thin figure stopped, framed like a shadow in the doorway, pausing like he forgot something—because he had. He tilted a glance over his shoulder and sought eye-contact. Once he had it: "Later, Shiro."

Dumbstruck, Shiro replied, "See you around, Keith."

And then he was gone.

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


They spoke every so often.

As time passed, they spoke often enough.

When more time passed, they spoke fairly often.

At some point they spoke more often than they didn't—about a lot of things. Keith's classes, if Shiro brought them up. His hobbies—which didn't exist beyond an obsession with physical hand-to-hand combat, like the career path "fighter pilot" was a perk. They spoke of his disregard for his physical limits—how he needed to learn when to retreat and come back to succeed later. How he should rest once in a while.

Mostly they spoke of Shiro, because Keith was good at strong-arming the topic back around. What were Shiro's hobbies—you know, outside his obsession with flying? ( _"It's a healthy interest."_ ) Did Shiro ever rest? Come to think of it, Keith seemed to recall some solid advice he'd heard recently, from a guy who knew what he was talking about. He had it on good authority that Shiro should take it. It was— ( _"Okay, okay. I get it."_ )

Many times they spoke with silence, pursing their individual interests with a degree of closeness that said: _I like being around you,_ and heard _I like being around you, too_ in turn.

Sometimes they left the Garrison. Other times, like today, they stayed nearby.

The surrounding desert was dotted with enough tall hills and stubby mountains to lend a view to star-seekers who preferred not to do such things from the top of the Garrison, where there was always light. Not that it made much difference beyond providing a place to exist without prying eyes, ears, or unwelcome interruptions. As alone as you could get on Garrison property. A place where-

"We out here for anything?" Keith stood at the top of the ruddy slope, hands crammed in his uniform's pockets.

Shiro wondered when he'd fallen behind—and why he hadn't noticed. He put his best thoughtful face forward. "I thought it'd be a nice change of scenery."

"That why the Garrison's right over there?" Keith jerked his head to indicate.

"This is different," said Shiro, who wouldn't be deterred. "Instead of being in the Garrison looking into the desert, we're in the desert looking into the Garrison."

Keith looked at him like he was hopeless—but he was smiling. "Real philosophical."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, but I almost failed that unit, so, probably not a compliment."

" _Philosophy of Physical Sciences_? We can work on that."

"No thanks."

"If you're sure." He paused once he caught up, dropping a hand on Keith's shoulder. "But really, I thought this would be a good place to talk."

"Here? Abo-"

He heard Keith's footing shuffle-stamp as he walked by, which wasn't too concerning because he hadn't had a choice. Not with the way Shiro had firmly—cordially—jostled him before moving on. "Let's find a spot first."

He couldn't see the look pinned on his back, but he imagined it had a lot in common with a harassed cat.

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


They had asked for his opinion.

First, they told him, due to his skill and experience. Second, he'd tested the set and provided feedback before the roll-out a year ago. Third, he had a good relationship with the boy but could be trusted to render fair, if not impartial, judgment to his performance. Fourth and most important: Kogane had glitched DCIV-NVE-033—short name, V33—in a way they'd never seen.

Crashing them wasn't unheard of. One pilot, they'd noted, had a talent for it even and he wasn't even fighter class, but they digressed. This was different: the mission was suspended in a state of neither incompletion nor completion and had to be shut down externally once the instructor realised something had gone wrong. They flagged it for higher review, unsure what to make of it. Higher review wanted to know what Takashi Shirogane thought—which was why he was in one of the Garrison review rooms, watching several monitors, each one telling him something different.

Right now he was most interested in the audio.

  


_Hang right._

_I said 'hang right'!_  


  


He glanced to the monitor at his left, mouth ticked down. That—

  


_I heard you._  


  


—was Keith.

  


_Then why?!_

  


_Because_ I'm _right! Just shut up and let me do this!_  


  


He didn't hear himself sigh. Good headphones will do that—but the exasperation he felt toward their lack of communication vanished when he saw their trajectory. He pressed his mouth in a tight, firm line while he lifted his hands to the headphones, pushing its cups against his ears, like that might help him hear beyond the sound of the boy who wasn't Keith yelling, urging his co-pilot to fall back; the sound of the craft taking and returning fire. One look at another monitor confirmed the lack of answer: Keith refused to respond even while they wrestled with their gears, fighting for control.

After a while—past the rattling, the shouting—he identified noise that must have come from him: low, dark rumbling that rolled into growling like the snap-snarl of bared fangs. Keith whirled his head and lanced the boy beside him with a hard stare, visibly grinding his teeth—which was enough to cow him, stop him from trying to interfere. He didn't have full control for long before the sound died.

  


_Wait. What?_  


  


...only to rise again in the form of confusion a few seconds later, the intense fury-driven focus wiped away as if he'd undergone a hard reset.

  


_Uh... I don't think this was supposed to happen._  


  


The transmission ended. Shiro stared at the blank monitors.

He watched it again—and a third time, just to be sure. Afterward, he removed his headphones.

"Well," he said, quietly, to no one: "He wasn't wrong."

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


_Your thoughts?_ they asked, after he'd seen what he wanted to see.

_The teamwork needs to exist. From there, it could use some work._

They all agreed: Kogane had done the equivalent of hamstringing his co-pilot and dragging him through hostile territory toward some ambiguous victory. All but Shiro found his frustration remarkable.

_Not your standard cadet. Most would gloat if they pulled that off in their first year._

He'd been about to comment before another voice spoke.

_Can you give a rundown of V33?_

The scenario, he explained, was the first in a series built to gauge a pilot's response to imminent danger. There were two paths: the first involved a so-called safe route that would come under fire the moment the pilot veered too close to designated enemy territory, which was part of its design. The pilot was supposed to believe they'd miscalculated. The second was trickier. It was a blind spot in the enemy's defense and required unforgiving accuracy to pass without triggering an attack. It was engineered to identify analytical cadets so their training could be modified accordingly. Few found the blind spot. Kogane completed V33 without doing either.

_Then it's safe to say Kogane sliced a third path directly through enemy airspace—while struggling to control his ship, no less._

_Yes, sir._

_Were you aware this path was possible?_

_No, sir._

For a moment, silence.

_Do you have any recommendations?_

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


The sky was pink-purple, cooling to deep blue with the threat of evening. It brought a brand of cold that was pleasant through the warmth of a uniform, but promised discomfort the later they stayed out. Keith didn't seem to notice. He sat with his back slumped against a large rock, one leg folded and the other stretched out, his eyes shut. "That's bad, right?"

"I'd say it's more 'unprecedented.'" Shiro sat with his own back to the rock, facing the dying sun. They weren't beside each other, but their arms almost touched. "I wanted to talk about a few more things. Let's move on to your co-pilot."

No reply. Shiro checked over his shoulder. Keith's posture had become an aggressive slouch, which he took to be an invitation to continue: "Keith, listen. His concern was warranted. You're supposed to talk to your co-pilot. If you were wrong, it was his performance on the line. He _had_ to try to stop you."

"I know that."

Which perhaps explained why he didn't lash out against his co-pilot despite his displeasure at the time. Shiro made a mental note and moved on. "Next time, you have to talk to them." 

"That was one mission," Keith snapped.

"I watched more than one mission."

"I _have_ talked to them."

"All right, all right. You've talked to them—and if they don't understand, you might yell at them, but _then_ you ignore them."

Conspicuous, sulk-sullied silence.

Shiro invaded Keith's personal space, inching along the rock to nudge their shoulders together. "Look, I get you. Even if it takes a few seconds to explain, this isn't life-or-death. If those seconds cost you your mission and you told your officer your intent, they'd let you redo. Probably solo."

"They wouldn't."

"Why's that?"

"They don't do it for anybody."

How to word this? "All right, preface: I don't like saying stuff like this, so I'm saying it as myself, not a Garrison official. Understand?"

Keith opened one eye, tipping a glance in Shiro's direction. "Understood."

"They aren't _you_. Tell me, when the other cadets say they were gonna do something else, what do the officers say?"

"They ask what they were gonna do."

"And how do they respond?"

Silence—ah, there's the lightbulb. Keith opened both eyes, surprise rising in them like high water, drowning the last belligerent flickers of anger. "Usually keeping on about how they could do differently while blaming somebody else."

"If you told them what you intended to do, they'd let you." He didn't say _and if they wouldn't before, they sure as hell will now_. "They've got their preferences, but first and foremost: your program is about trial and error. Learning what works and what doesn't. It's also about communication and cooperation. I know it seems counter-intuitive, but you've gotta focus on communication."

The flat-line of Keith's mouth sagged into a scowl. Shiro pressed on. "I know what you're thinking. 'The real deal isn't like that.' And you're right, it's not, but Keith—as far as the Garrison's concerned? You're beginners. They wanna make sure you guys are in the same book first, let alone the same page, you get me?"

Keith looked back to the portion of sky he'd staked out. "I guess."

No good. "And what's that got to do with you?"

"I'm thinking ahead."

Better. Affection overwhelmed him—a foreign, prickling warmth that began to swell with every breath. He watched what he could see of Keith's expression, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. "Way ahead. Impressive work in there."

His company cast him a sidelong glance. "You've seen me pilot before."

"Not like that. Which, second thing: you think you could recreate that path?"

"Yeah, easy. Why?" Confidence—but not arrogance, like he'd been asked 'Can you breathe?' and he'd replied with the only factually correct answer.

He couldn't figure out why the warmth was churning itself into something feverish. "I'd like to see what you can do without the..."

"Yelling? Arguing? Complaining? Fighting? Interfering?"

"...without all of that, yes."

"Should've stayed in the Garrison," said Keith, knocking their shoulders together. "Could show you now." His smile was gentle; made Shiro feel like a rabbit locked in headlights, trapped by someone who appeared happy to be there, not at the Garrison, looking at him.

They were in a place where they could speak without prying eyes, ears, or unwelcome interruptions. As alone as they could get on Garrison property. A place where the sun buried itself in the horizon and surrendered to night. Nothing but them, the rocks, the desert, the hovering moon, and a sky beginning to burn with stars.

"Hindsight," said Shiro. "You know how that goes."

"How'd you pass V33?"

He couldn't recall a time he'd wanted to talk less about anything connected to the Garrison. "Went through the blind spot."

"Oh."

'There was a blind spot?' would have had the same effect. The corner of Shiro's mouth crept into a smirk as he leaned back, turning his focus to the dimming sunset. Nix that previous thought. Talking about this was fine. "You saw the other way, right?"

"The long way around?"

"That's the one. I forgot to ask—why didn't you take it?"

Without delay: "I figured if we were gonna get shot at anyway I'd take the shortcut."

Take the... Shiro's exhale staggered into a chuckle. He allowed his eyes to drift shut, grinning to nothing and everything.

Incredible.

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


It wasn't until the sun was gone that Keith broke their silence: "Why do you bother?"

A strange tone dogged the question. Shiro blinked at what he could see of the form not-quite-beside him—the curve of his jaw, black hair. "With what?"

"Helping me."

"Do I?"

Hesitant. "Yeah." Then, faint: "You do."

Well. He never expected to hear confirmation, but there it was. "I'm glad I can."

Keith's voice took a sharp turn, bitten by impatience. "You didn't answer my question."

"About why I bother?"

"The one and only."

"Think about that for a second."

He spun like violence, twisting to snarl at Shiro, irritation flickering like wind worrying candle flames—the trick kind that don't go out easily. "I _have_ thought about it! You don't get paid for this. You're not even my officer." The arm furthest away from Shiro bent itself into an aggressive half-shrug, fingers spread and half-curled like he was grasping at the air.

It was to his greatest credit he didn't laugh, electing to speak with even, calm words. "Think a bit harder. If I'm not being paid and I don't teach you, why _would_ I bother?"

He stared like Shiro had taken Pandora's box, chopped it into pieces, assembled it into a Rubik's cube, and asked him to solve it.

"Come on now."

The stare intensified, like he'd been informed of his ten-second time limit.

Getting harder and harder to keep his mouth still. "It's not that difficult."

"You..." Keith scrunched his face with confusion, pausing before the rest of the words fell from his lips. "...never stop working?"

Which was where Shiro lost it: laughter roared, barking a handful of loud notes before he wrestled it back under control—but he couldn't curb his grin. "It's not that! Here's a hint: I _don't_ bother."

Keith lowered his indignant half-shrugging arm, flattening its palm on the rough earth beneath them. The air around them was thick with gravity, anchoring him back to a reasonable place. His eyes—blue? Gray-blue? Blue-on-the-verge-of-violet? Violet-blue? What colour were they? Too dark to tell now—searched Shiro's, guileless; filled with some forget-me-not fervor that kicked him in the chest and tied his lungs in knots. "I guess we're friends, huh?"

Another kick. For a different reason. "Few months late on that. What'd you think this whole time?"

He watched Keith melt into the rock; noted the exposed line of his throat when he dropped his head back; the way his eyes closed again instead of seeking stars. There was something sly in his voice when he answered. "That you're weird."

Shiro scoffed. "Spending time with you isn't weird."

"Hot-shot top pilot-turned-officer, praised as a living legend, hanging out with a first-year he doesn't teach?"

"Okay, maybe it's a little weird without the friendship part."

"It didn't bother me."

Heartbeat: intrusive, pounding the rhythm of...something like panic, but not quite. "Okay, third thing," he said, perhaps too quickly. "Heads' up: your schedule's going to change soon and you'll report to me twice a week." Focus on the sun. "Not sure how they're splitting it yet, but you'll know soon." On the sun. Not on Keith. Not yet.

Not even if he looked incredulous, like some mistake was being made. "What?"

"C'mon." Shiro inhaled a deep, silent breath; dividing himself from the feeling that threatened to consume him, clawing up the steep face of victory, where he found solace in teaching. If he focused on that, he wouldn't have to think of anything else. "You know you're good."

"Not like you."

"I'll decide that. Twice weekly, after the change."

Keith puffed a _pffff_. "Gunning the whole 'authority figure' thing already?" Somehow, he didn't sound displeased.

"Whenever necessary."

Another smile breached Keith's voice. "Thought you knew how to stop working."

It was contagious. "I don't remember saying that."

"Guess I gotta get used to this."

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


No one would blame him for delighting in such things: the sound of heavy breath panting from between parted lips; the way the glare tried to crush him, like the concept of annihilation was all it understood; the smoldering focus—

—and how easy it was to demolish by asking, "So, how's it going?"

Shiro ducked left, narrowly dodging the blur of black-clothed arm. Through gritted teeth, a reply: " _Ffffffffiiiii_ ne-" followed by another strike.

No-go that time either. "Really?"

It wasn't that Shiro didn't take him seriously. The trouble was this was getting nowhere—rather, Keith was getting nowhere. He also wasn't giving up. Third round was supposed to be the charm, but all Shiro had managed to say was 'All right, let's ca-' before Keith lunged, trying to swipe victory through the element of surprise and a nigh-silent flank attack. It might have worked if exhaustion and frustration hadn't made him sloppy.

Which did nothing but make him more frustrated, shouting: "You already kn-  
_-rrgh!_ "

The sound wrenched from his throat when Shiro took him down. Keith's back hit the mat but he was slow, unable to escape the quickness with which a knee struck his abdomen.

"Give," said Shiro.

But the wild look hadn't fled his dark glare, like something had snapped and he understood nothing but the instinct driving him to win under pain of death. He struggled beneath Shiro, thrashing hard enough he almost threw him—and subsequently forced him to do something he didn't want to do: he drove his weight harder into Keith's stomach, pinning his arms to the floor.

Keith's eyes screwed shut, gurgling with pain.

"Give," Shiro repeated, voice firm with warm command.

The lithe body weathered pain and shortness of breath for longer than he'd expected, but he didn't let up when Keith's muscles slackened. He began a silent count: one. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev—six-and-a-half seconds was all it took for Keith to flare with frustration, setting off another round of struggling. In time, tension drained in a way Shiro hadn't observed him able to fake.

Fondly, then: "Finished?"

"...yeah."

That was all he needed to disengage, pushing himself to a stand. He'd been about to turn to leave when he noticed Keith failed to exhibit interest in doing the same. He'd gotten as far as sitting up, but he sat with his eyes still shut, mouth wrecked around a deep frown; brows furrowed while he shook his head like someone shaking off a daze.

That seemed...off. "You all right?" Had he been too...? Whatever the reason, he stooped to offer his hand. "Anything hurt?"

Keith reached as if he sensed him, but overshot his grip. Shiro felt the surprise in his pause as fingers met muscle instead of the unmistakable structure of a palm. Even so, he dug his fingertips in as if to say _this way's fine_. "Nah, just dizzy."

His grip was gentle around Keith's forearm as he—helped him up wasn't correct, if only because he felt no weight pulling on him; no evidence he wasn't just fine to stand on his own. Held his arm while he stood up? Not much time to think about before another thought presented itself: Keith hadn't let go. Shiro looked to their hands—their arms—and then to his face, where his dark lashes were beginning to shiver, opening part way while he sighed.

He was aware of his pulse, how it felt like his heart was trying to run away; to take off to some place where it could hide or escape deep into the desert, up one of those not-quite-mountains; to fling itself off a ledge; anything to avoid confr-

"Good job," he said, because despite Keith's difficulty with winding down, it was true. More than that: it was the only thing he could think to say.

Keith, who could be tricked by someone telling him they had a bridge for sale (even if he would wonder why they thought he cared about their real estate), leveled him with half-lidded skepticism. "I barely touched you."

"You'll get there." Shiro broke away, patting his back in passing.


	2. Standards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may or may not see a rehaul at some unspecified point in the future. The editing still needs work but I'm tired of looking at this part and want to move on to others.

 

 

 

"They'll pick you."

"Bit early to say. The planning just started."

"They will."

"You sound confident. Wanna write me a recommendation?"

"Mmm... _You're idiots if y'don't pick the best pilot here._ That work?"

Shiro knew better than to argue when this person paid him a compliment. He glanced away from his work, deciding his attention was better placed across the four-maybe-five-foot distance separating them. "Concise. I like your style—which, speaking of you: your turn."

Keith huddled in his seat, comfortably compact; his back wedged against what would have been an armrest if the chair wasn't more like a misshapen white saucer, all curves and no edges. He blinked his bleary eyes open and said nothing.

But the savvy viewer would know to wait: he squinted at Shiro, frowning while he visibly pieced the statement together. "My...what?" He looked like he belonged in a dark room somewhere, wrapped in bedsheets.

Blankets.

Bundled in blankets. A lot of them. As many as it took to cover that thought.

Retract prior assertion: his attention belonged on the slim screen in front of him. Shiro drummed sentences filled with shorthand—the repetitive rhythm of notes he could have written in his sleep.

Now then, where was he? He braved another look at Keith, smiling the smile of All That Was Ever And Will Ever Be benign. "On second thought, maybe you should head back."

Sleepiness thawed into predictable petulance. "Why?"

"You look tired," said Shiro, impeccably pleasant.

"M'awake."

"Isn't that the problem?"

"No."

"All right, how about this: you lie down in that pod over there and I'll wake you when I'm finished."

The Garrison didn't offer many places for cadets and officers to cavort outside the classroom, but the Information Center provided a passable area on the occasions when it might be necessary. It was a neutral location containing windowed private rooms, public discussion areas, and the occasional padded reading pod clustered throughout rows of books, archive records, and various media.

They occupied a discussion area tucked into a far corner—out of the way, but not wholly out of sight to those who came and went. It was quiet on most days, but especially so in the late afternoons, which meant they were left to their own devices.

Rather, Shiro was left to _his_ device. Keith didn't even have an excuse.

 _What're you doing when you're done?_ he'd asked.

What he'd meant was _what are you doing after your session?_ —but he'd come a long way from the cadet who spoke only in afterthoughts. Casual conversations didn't require clarification.

Shiro replied, _More work. Lots to be done at the end of the week._

 _Like what?_ Keith tipped his head. It wasn't the first time he'd exhibited interest in Shiro's multitude of responsibilities, but it was the first time he'd pressed for details.

 _Reviewing reports, submitting my own reports, checking activity logs, reviewing flight plans, modifying lesson plans..._ and the explanation hadn't stopped there, but at some point he'd noticed the fog dimming Keith's expression.

It might have been frustrating had Shiro not been patient, but mostly he found its occurrence flattering: it meant Keith had reached maximum capacity for storing information he didn't care about, but was trying to pay attention anyway. With more important topics—training and tutoring—he'd need to stop, let the information sink in, and revisit it a few minutes later in order to have any reasonable expectation of retention.

In this case, he'd elected to move on. _...and once I'm finished with that, I'll annotate your results._

 _Huh. You gotta do that?_

_Sure do._

_I thought these systems catch everything. Shouldn't it like...already be captured?_

_Technically it is, but it's not the right format._ He paused. Then, as if it explained everything: _Bureaucracy's always about five steps behind._

_Sounds pretty inefficient to me._

It was, he agreed. What they really ought to do was allocate a small portion of their operations and maintenance budget toward bolstering their infrastructure instead of maintaining—which was about where he'd lost Keith again.

But he hadn't managed to shake his interest in seeing him once his official day had ended. Proof of that was right here, sulking like Shiro was guilty of more than giving in to the urge to tease one of his students.

"No," Keith repeated, tone firm. "Tell me what my turn is."

"Since you insist." He offered Keith another smile—a flash of mercy before the assault. "It's your turn to talk. Tell me about you. No getting out of it this time. Why'd you decide to enlist? Anything you want to accomplish? Hopes? Dreams?"

Keith widened his eyes like he'd been lured into an ambush and saw it too late, his brows angling in the fashion of someone who'd gotten precisely what they demanded and found they no longer wanted it. "Uh..." If nothing else, he looked awake now. "...fighting?" He paused. "Piloting." Another pause. "Fighter piloting?"

Shiro coughed into his fist, tending to his composure. The reply was a sad imitation of a genuine answer, but he couldn't shake the feeling it was honest in its omissions. When it felt safe, he ventured: "Okay, we can start there." Sometimes it was worth covering ground you already knew to see if you could find something new. "You got a preference? Piloting, fighting, both?"

"Both." Whatever uncertainty Keith had felt faded: his eyes slipped shut and he wiggled into his seat. Once he found comfort, he folded his arms over his stomach and said, "I've never fought for real, obviously, but from what I can tell...I like it."

"Any particular reason?"

"It's fast. Don't gotta think about it."

Shiro lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It's hard to explain. All I gotta do is focus on my objective and everything else falls into place. Do or die, you know?" Pause. "Or, do or fail, I guess."

"Doesn't have the same ring to it." Then, on a hunch: "Is that why you like self-defense so much?"

"Nah. That's harder."

"Is it? How so?"

Keith half-opened an eye, the shape of his mouth carving in a nigh-sly smile. "Difficult to read a good opponent."

The implication was harmless.

The implication speared him through the chest.

The implication flooded him with warmth for reasons he couldn't—didn't want to understand.

The implication left him wondering why Keith had insisted on staying. It was evident he had nothing to do here—it had been obvious the moment he'd walked in, sought Shiro, and flopped into that chair.

If he was waiting, why would he be waiting? What was he waiting for?

"That mean you're about done?"

He found himself staring right into a brazen smirk.

"Almost," he said, jerking to the matter at han— _turning his wayward attention back to the very important business of doing work on a portable computer (otherwise known as a laptop, which was in no way an inflated or unnecessary description, because these things were important) that was used for crucial things like redundancy and inefficient notation, safely entrenched in the monotony of work, where the only things he had to consider filling were columns and input fields._ "Soon," he added.

Keith closed his eye and went silent, content to make sure the conversation about himself remained over.

The inside of Shiro's head felt hot. Intrusive thoughts aren't uncommon. They happen to everyone.

Must be reading into it. Overthinking.

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


"What am I supposed to be doing, exactly?"

"Try clearing your mind."

"I tried."

"Not very long."

"How long am I supposed to keep this up?"

"Longer than you did. C'mon, quiet now."

In Keith's defense, he _had_ been trying—or he'd been trying to try. He did something like trying; even tried to keep himself from fidgeting and grumbling, but in the end he was defeated by distraction.

Itching was also a problem, as Shiro discovered when he lifted his lashes to check on him, peering at him through a sliver of sight. His lower body was the picture-perfect personification of Zen, which was impressive considering how fervently he clawed at his arm. His eyes were also closed and those alone could have passed for something resembling calm if not for the fierce angle of his brows and the frustrated squirm of his mouth when he said: "This isn't working, Shiro."

"Just relax."

"I'm trying!"

"Take deep breaths. As you inhale, try to focus on how the air feels filling your lungs. Imagine you can feel it convert to the oxygen in your blood. Notice how it feels when you exhale."

Keith huffed. "All I notice is how stupid this is."

Shiro stifled a laugh and stood from the gym mat. "Let's try this a different way."

 

 

 

He brought him to the roof.

Better to teach him here, where only wind and sun played the part of outside distractions. They sat back-to-back, legs folded and hands placed upon their knees. Best to start basic; wouldn't do to complicate Keith's understanding with nuanced hand positions.

"Now what?" he asked.

"Breathe," Shiro replied.

 

 

 

He was aware of the sun's warmth—of the hotter heat pressed too-close against his back. Of the tension Keith held in his shoulders. Of the steady in-out, in-out, and in-out of his slow breaths; of how he tried to follow Shiro's lead.

He was aware of the precise second when Keith's posture began to relax—of how sloppy it was, but further aware of how first times were never perfect.

He was aware of the solid, steady drum of his heart. Of how nice it was to sit in silence with another person—of how it was this precise person who made this feel so pleasant. Of how he cared about him beyond an arguably inappropriate interest: about what would happen to him; his future; ensuring his talent wasn't wasted in an institution that wouldn't flex its methods to suit their students. Of how it was unfortunate—how it might have been different if the stars had aligned differently from the way they did now; aware that had he possessed the ability to choose which stars to align, if it meant Keith would at all suffer from lack of guidance, he wouldn't have done anything different.

He was also aware of him stirring like the beginnings of impatience, like a student who finished their test first but wasn't allowed to leave. Which was fine: Keith wasn't the only one who'd had enough.

Shiro broke their silence. "How was it?"

"I don't know. I still don't think it worked."

"Why's that?"

"I kept thinking the whole t—what's so funny?"

"That's normal."

"Oh. Then I guess it wasn't bad." Hesitation, followed by continuation: "It was... ...pretty nice, actually."

A pang of affection wrenched inside Shiro's chest. The world felt soft when he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, looking for what he could see of Keith—who had the same idea. "Think you could make it regular?"

"With you?"

Ah. Another ache. "With _and_ without me."

Keith's eyes drifted skyward before flicking back to Shiro. "How much d'you do it?"

"Once a day."

That might have been a bit much: Keith turned back around and slumped his weight against Shiro, stretching his arms above his head. "Think I'll pass."

Helpfully: "Start small. Fifteen minutes whenever you can."

"I'll think about it," Keith said.

Shiro's mouth curved into a smile when he glanced up, looking into a sky filled with stars he couldn't see.

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


They finished late—an occurrence that was becoming more and more common.

"Keith, wait."

He came to a dead halt and spun to face Shiro, like he'd been pulled by an invisible leash. His confusion was clear: what could Shiro have forgotten that he'd waited until he was almost to the door. "Sir?"

"As you were, cadet." Shiro paused to smile before he added: "It's personal. Do you have a moment?"

Keith's posture melted, obedience running from him like water off a duck. "That depends." He set his hand on his hip, eyes lit with cheerful defiance. "How many seconds is that?"

"Ninety."

One of Keith's brows lifted while he stepped away from the door, stepping back toward Shiro until he stopped a few feet away, scrutinising him. "You makin' that up?"

"No, no. It's a medieval measurement," said Shiro, who wasn't quite as good at switching his modus.

They shared a long, quiet stare.

Then he said: "On second thought, this might take a few moments."

 

 

 

It took a couple moments.

It also went better than Shiro had expected.

"Didn't even need my recommendation," Keith said.

"Maybe I'd have heard something sooner if you sent it."

"Maybe." There was something wrong with his tone, like he was trying out a new voice that wasn't exactly his.

It made Shiro's stomach drop. "Is everything all right?"

Dark eyes turned on him, sharp like steel. Keith's spine went rigid, not unlike a cat whose hackles were raising. "You mean you being picked for Kerberos?"

"Well-"

Keith cut him off: "Whatever you'd say if I asked you 'You're going no matter what, right?' It's that. That's my answer."

A laconic barb, but he didn't find uncertainty in Keith's face. Good sign. One less worry on his shoulders. Keith was a lot of things, but passive-aggressive wasn't one of them—but that prompted a new concern: who, exactly, was having trouble here?

He wondered how his own face must have looked. It had to have looked like something: Keith's glare was fierce—but then it dulled, eclipsed by discomfort. "I can be by myself, Shiro." His words were soft. "I'm not gonna fall apart while you're gone."

Oh, he thought, forcing his smile. "I'm sorry, Keith." It's me. "I didn't mean it like that." I'm the one.

"Don't be. It's fine. It's just..." He paused, like searching for a sentiment he didn't know how to express. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Before?"

"You're delayed it," said Keith, staunch like the law. "You should've said it first thing. You're always going on and on about that. The importance of not delaying stuff."

This time, Shiro's smile wasn't forced. "Can I apologise for that?"

Inflexible and rude as rules: "You tell me."

Difficult to think with his heart pounding so loudly. He corrected himself: "May I?"

"Hm."

"Come on. Let me say it. I messed up."

Keith hedged closer, patting Shiro's shoulder before leaving his hand there; a sweet gesture until he said: "Sounds like your problem."

Not his only problem either. Most prominent problem: the way the touch set fire to his nerves. His laugh was breathless, voice dense with adoration. "Harsh."

"But fair, right?" Then, with a smile he wore in his eyes, Keith looked to Shiro and said: "I knew they'd take you."

Surprise left Keith in a gasp when Shiro seized him. He felt the lithe frame turn to stone in his arms, which was when he realised he might have made a mistake—a thought that didn't last long when he felt weight pressing into his chest. He looked down to watch as Keith fumbled with his arms, like he didn't know where to put them.

Two false starts later, he felt them wind around him.

Gently, Shiro said, "Thank you."

"What? I didn't do anything."

"You were you."

"That's not a reason."

"I think it is."

He wasn't sure if he'd imagined it: the feeling of fingers clutching the back of his uniform, there one moment and gone the next.

Not much time to think about it either: Keith broke away, pink in the face, refusing to look at him while he changed the subject. "It'll be weird. I don't learn anything from anyone else."

Better that way, he told himself, and then jumped ship to follow. "You could take the opportunity to make friends." His sentence was punctuated by Keith's snort. "I'm serious. What about the one you told me about?"

Keith's head snapped up like he'd been insulted. "I told you I have friends?" His was the voice of someone who had retired to their room and found it occupied by friends, sleepovers, and loud noises he didn't want to deal with and felt he should have known about long before now.

Which...okay, that was an issue that should be addressed at some point, but it would have to wait for another time. "I meant your classmate."

"I have a lot of those." He eyed Shiro warily.

"The one who keeps talking to you?"

No good. Keith frowned, his gaze sliding to the left while he thought about it.

"He's...competitive?"

Aggressive question marks may as well have emanated from the kid's pores.

"In your general flight class," he tried, weakly.

When Keith looked back at him, nothing had changed.

"Cargo pilot?" That was it, his last defense against Keith's selective memory.

"Who?" A flicker of recognition. "Oh." The flicker died. "We're not friends."

Shiro was optimistic, which was why he tried again: "You could be."

Keith's mouth hooked around a smile, holding the sort of cleverness that came with mischief. "You want me and him to bond over you while you're gone?"

Such playful, deliberate misunderstanding must have been retribution. Keith didn't keep score, but if it was in his recent memory, he wasn't against getting even. "All I'm saying is it's good to have a common interest."

Which hadn't been what he wanted to say. He widened his eyes and stared at Keith, who stared back like he'd been shot, unaware of his mortal wound courtesy of two different types of shock.

"Flying," Shiro clarified, then cleared his throat. "I meant flying. Good to have a common interest. Trade different perspectives. Lots of learning opportunities. That sort of thing."

"Uh, yeah," said Keith, who accepted his clarification despite pointedly glancing away. "That's not gonna happen." A beat later, Keith looked back to Shiro to add, "Bet he'd change his mind if he knew you said that though."

Shiro cracked a grin. "You're merciless."

"I gotta be. It's the only time I win."

"We can test that after Kerberos; see how I've atrophied in space."

"Better be ready. I won't go easy on you."

"I'll look forward to it."


	3. Fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't feel natural to splice this part in anywhere else, so here's a short chapter.

 

 

 

One who defeats the competition; who rises above any opposition.

_The strange bend of a body broken; entrails leaking like yolk from a split egg—_

Who fights or defends either creatures or causes; a warrior with more agency than a gladiator.

_—fragments separated from a whole, bursting with an incurable_ crack _—_

Protector or defender; advocate or combatant; a challenger.

_—decaying, savage wails; the thrash of delirious limbs—_

Superior. Undefeated.

_—talons carving ground like words etched in a grave marker; crumpled bones crushed beneath the pillar-stone—_

An animal favoured by popular vote; first-rate; a winner.

_—followed by stillness; heavy, rattled breath; a psyche shaken and stirred._

Best-in-show; only missing the blue ribbons.

Sound roared to life like sparks in an atmosphere swimming in gas, wild with cheers and jeers; cawing, crowing, barking, baying, screaming; some singing for him in tongues that wore his name in strange ways. The darkest and deepest cut through the higher pitches, their croaks resonating through the sensation of cotton wedged inside his ears: _Chompon._

It filled his head. _Chomp-on_. Why were there so many voices? _Chomp-on, chomp-on,_ like he wolfed them down and spat their bones onto the ground.

But everything felt Wrong.

Movement snagged in the corners of his wild-wide eyes, which snapped to follow a target he couldn't quite see. Time became fluid, oozing like tar. His instincts flew on autopilot, mechanical like the pull inside his right arm, where muscle used to be. It teemed with hunger, whirring as if powered by the promise of blood.

His jaw set, teeth clenched. The arena surrounded him in a squirm of sound, less comprehensible than what was supposed to be his name, but much easier to understand.

He knew what must be done as much as he knew the knot in his stomach. Knew it as surely as the impulse which said _I know you're there_ ; like the taste of iron on his tongue from some cut he'd bitten into his cheek. Like life left behind; letters he'd learned to write as a child; like loss; like the way somebody looked at somebody in an old love song from long ago, back when those things still meant something. Like the lithe creature that lunged for his flank, lashing with speed that might have taken him by surprise in a reality where such things weren't a reminder—a dull ache, a muscle memory, a phantom pain whose origin he didn't know.

The knife clanged against his right arm.

And then it was over.

Violence pooled around him, swallowed him whole. Left him wondering why so many of those putrid, shrieking creatures couldn't get the Goddamn name right.

  
  


‡‡‡‡‡

  
  


They called him _Champion._

On his more lucid days he understood the title was a joke.

He'd done vile things to keep his name, because he didn't have a choice. In some distant way he knew no one could have blamed him under these circumstances, but he also knew he wasn't called Champion because he was strong: he slaughtered without mercy because he was a coward, afraid to die.

Sometimes they made him a monster.

Today, after he'd killed the rest, they fed him a Galra. It couldn't fight.

It was dressed like him and roughly his size, but not as wide. Smaller than any other he'd encountered. It couldn't have been a soldier, because it couldn't fight. It wouldn't have had a chance no matter who was in the arena.

It couldn't fight and it had a gorge where its chest used to be.

Why was it there if it couldn't fight? (Why did it bother him?)

What had it felt? What did it do to be sentenced to death here? Did it have a heart? If it didn't, it must have had something like it: the blood wouldn't stop.

It couldn't fight, so it had a gorge where its chest used to be. From beneath its body, a puddle was spreading.

It reminded him of something. A memory beyond his reach. Violet-on-the-verge-of-blue. Maybe purple. Couldn't tell. The light was unnatural here, but the colour felt familiar. Some forget-me-not-something that tied Champion's lungs on knots.

He watched while the Galra smeared away, dragged by the hook in its leg—who was pulling it?

Didn't care to look. Where was it going? It couldn't fight.

Shouldn't have gone like that. It left all its blood behind. It couldn't live that way.

Champion waited—to be collected by his handlers, who would come to fetch him if he didn't return to the gate; to remember something he knew he shouldn't have forgotten.


	4. Coefficient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that needs more editing but I've grown tired of looking at.

  
  
  


It didn't feel real.

Altean clocks and calendars said otherwise—weeks had passed since Shiro had returned; since they'd earned the title _paladins_ —but he felt like he slogged through time; like it congealed around him, red-hot. Added weight to him, left him on uneven footing as he walked along a ledge he couldn't see, heedless of the chasm that had opened beside him. The price for losing his balance was falling.

Good thing it wasn't an option.

Keith inhaled a deep breath and expelled it through his nose in a snort.

He sat on the floor of the training deck, legs folded; the backs of his palms laid atop his knees, the tips of his thumbs and index fingers united in two circles. He held his chin high and kept his spine aligned; eyes shut as he immersed himself in breathing. He was aware of air entering and exiting his lungs; aware he knew how to breathe; and intimately aware that the ground was hard enough to be distracting, which made him further aware that next time he'd have to, like, bring a pillow or something.

He was also aware he wasn't very good at this.

He should have been asleep instead of sitting here, sifting through memories, finding other times when he couldn't sleep—back to autumn, months after his expulsion, when he'd had restless, frantic energy to burn and nothing but time in which to burn it. Back when memories left him distressed and delirious and _night time_ meant something in terms of passing days; when he'd mapped constellations from dots he'd never meant to connect.

Back to a night when he'd thrown himself in the sand, despondent and exhausted and frustrated all the same, his vacant stare roaming the rising white tower of the milky way that cut a path through the sky, leading to places he couldn't follow; when he'd realised all the things he knew about space were narrated in Shiro's voice—that warm, ardent tone he'd always taken when he spoke of his interests. Back when his eyes began to sting.

Back to when he knew patience yielded focus, but living didn't feel like living; when life became a single-minded obsession centered around a question he couldn't answer; when coasting along the brink of existence felt like floating, falling upward as if his consciousness was being siphoned into the stratosphere; pulled by the gravity of stars that tried to coax him apart, scatter him like cosmic dust all across space where he didn't know he belonged.

Keith gouged his thumbnails into his fingertips; hands curling into fists.

"Mind if I join you?"

He startled like a wildcat: his eyes flew open, fierce with guarded aggression. He twisted his neck like whiplash, sizing up the bulk of the body that had approached him—all the way to the white forelock.

Shiro.

Tension shed from Keith's muscles as he puffed a soft sigh, noting the curious incline of Shiro's head. He'd changed. Not just in appearance. In different ways. It was like his captivity had forced him to truly become _Shiro_. Takashi Shirogane was still in there, but it felt like an apparition stepped ahead of him—an echo that came calling long before anyone spoke the words, or the faint impression of a ghost that became corporeal the longer you looked at it.

Not an easy feeling to explain. Wouldn't be able to put it in words if he tried.

Kinda strange though. Never heard the door. How long had he been standing there? He watched Shiro's mouth slip into a smile—and then widen as a grin slashed across his face.

Keith blinked.

Oh.

Oh yeah.

"Have at it," he replied, rearranging his posture back into the model of true tranquility, reconnecting the rings he'd made out of his thumb and forefingers.

  
  
  


Meditation had been one of many ways Shiro had tried to reach him—teach him to be more mindful, aware of himself and his feelings; to temper his roiling frustration and lend him focus. He'd taught different mudra—the hand positions—to use for different objectives, to change his point of concentration or however all that was supposed to work. He never noticed anything different.

Wasn't about to start today either, but that had less to do with any mudra and everything to do with the wall of muscle pressed against his back—firm, stable, and more sure than the castle beneath them; the steady in-out of Shiro's breath; the peace seeping into Keith's bones like marrow he hadn't known was missing.

Seconds became minutes. Minutes, moments. Calm and quiet.

Until Shiro's breath snagged like it had been caught in his throat—a sound he'd tried to stifle as he flinched, stock-still in the manner of someone who had stumbled onto a place they hadn't wanted to find.

Keith lifted his lashes halfway, brows knitting concern to go with his newfound frown.

He leaned into Shiro and squeezed his eyes shut. "Breathe," he said. "Like me. Focus on that." At first, nothing—but slowly and surely, he felt Shiro match him. "Good. Forget how stupid everything else is. Inhale the air, notice it in your mouth, lungs, or wherever. It doesn't matter, just notice it."

Laughter huffed behind him—or what might have been laughter once, long ago before it wasted to something so weak.

Some time passed before Keith heard him again.

Softly, he said: "You've gotten good at this."

Keith felt his chest tighten, his heart starved and seizing in a fit of hunger; craving something he didn't know how to explain. "Better than I was," he replied, because 'good' was pushing it.

Shiro's voice rumbled like an indulgent murmur. "When'd you come around?"

"Seems like a whole lotta talkin' and not enough meditation." Kneejerk: faster than light. It earned a chuckle—which, good sign: that was stronger than the last attempt to laugh—but it didn't feel right. Letting it go like that. He'd be lying if he pretended he didn't want to talk about it. "After the Garrison. Thought I'd give it a shot."

Another silence—solemn, filled with uncertainties Keith didn't like.

Hesitant, cautious: "What happened there?"

Mudra: broken. Keith stretched his arms like he was pretending to be a plane, tossing his head from left-to-right, right-to-left to pop his neck before he placed his hands in his lap and settled against his human backrest. "Bet you can guess."

"Disciplinary issues." The voice fell, dead weight the moment it left his lips.

"They really like their two-word explanations over there." If Keith had given a thought toward his feelings, he might have recognised his bitterness for what it was.

"Their explanations could definitely use some work," Shiro agreed, but otherwise he added nothing.

Silence reinvented itself in a poor imitation of the wheel: it clambered on like a square, thudding louder and louder with every second it was allowed to persist. Keith placed the backs of his hands against his knees again, worrying the inside of his bottom lip, joining pinkies and thumbs to form two new circles. Once, Shiro might have had more to say—something that would have cured this permeating unease. Made it go away, but he didn't do it now. Might never do it again.

He inhaled a deep breath and spurred the conversation forward. "...it helped. After I was kicked." What? What was he thinking? Something else. Shouldn't focus on the Garrison. "When I felt it—the blue lion. I started around then. Cleared my head a little." Now what? Should he keep talking? Felt like he should keep talking. So he did: "I know you're all about focus. It wasn't focus for me, not exactly, but...I guess I wasn't patient. I wasn't anything, really. There was nothing to focus on."

If he clenched his jaw any tighter together he might have cracked a tooth. That was the stupidest thing he's ever said. Complete nonsense. All he did was talk himself in a circle like a snake eating its own tail. How did Lance _do_ this? Did he bother listening to himself?

Second mudra: also broken. Keith turned his palms to dig his fingers into his knees, like trying to hold himself in place while he rolled his shoulders, grimly continuing the task of putting feelings into words. "I tried to see it—to find what you saw in the stars, but I couldn't. There was nothing that made me feel the way you looked when you talked about them. I searched and searched, but all I found was this feeling, like I belonged out there, too."

He heard a sudden _hhf_ behind him, like someone getting punched in the gut.

Shiro turned to stone against his back.

Not good. Something he'd said undid all the careful work he'd put into serving as a distraction from unpleasant memories.

Keith cracked his eyes open, the right corner of his lip curling in a sneer—at the situation? At himself? "I felt like a compass," he said, voice raised, trying to smother the beginnings of his name on Shiro's tongue, because he didn't want to hear it. "It's crazy. I still can't believe-"

He felt the body behind him move and kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead. He knew without looking that Shiro had twisted, turned to see what he could see of Keith—who kept pretending not to notice it—among other things—as his pulse exploded and he rocketed to a stand.

" _Anyway,_ " he said, too quickly. "You didn't forget, did you?" He risked tipping a look down to Shiro, hoping whatever he felt wasn't written on his face, because he didn't know what it would say. He felt a prickle of heat at his throat, searing higher the longer he held eye-contact.

"Forget?" said Shiro, who looked like he'd been assaulted by a very confused mugger. One who didn't know they weren't supposed to give everything they owned to their victim before running away.

"Yeah." Keith searched his memory. The proper reply was... "You owe me."

Shiro stared.

How did Lance say this stuff without feeling like an idiot? "Match. Once you got back."

Confusion withered, leaving a weak smile in its place. "I hope you'll forgive me for breaking that promise. A lot happened."

That wouldn't do.

"You didn't _break_ it." Keith's voice flared, hotter than he'd intended. "It got _delayed._ "

It was like watching the sun: the look in Shiro's face lightened, overcome with warmth that chased darkness away. His expression was gentle, like a bludgeon, which wasn't soft, but it was—it was—this was—

"Come on." Keith turned away, not waiting for him to stand.

Had to get moving. Get on with it. Swing at him. Fight, like they used to. If he didn't, he didn't know what he'd do.

It was terrifying.


	5. Spectrum

  


  


  


"You said you'd atrophy!" 

It was the last thing Keith yelped before he hit the mat, hands scrambling for purchase to push himself up, to fight back. He exhaled a hard _hnf!_ when he went down again, arm twisted behind his back.

Shiro assessed the rise-and-fall of Keith's back; one knee tucked against his side while he bowed over him, applying weight to keep him down. "You're faster." 

The appraisal didn't win any appreciation. "Yeah, and _you're_ stronger." Keith glared over his shoulder, lit with some emotion that didn't appear to be anger.

Something was off. Keith was more talkative. Not that he'd ever been hesitant to speak his mind with Shiro, but the subject matter...well, now wasn't a good time to approach it. Set that aside for later. In the meantime, he managed a grin. "Credit to my rigorous workout schedule."

Keith's expression flickered like strobe lights: blank, shock, blank, surprise, blank, sober, sober, sober, _sheepish_. His focus wandered to the hand that held him down.

Ah. Bad joke.

Shiro let go, clearing his throat as he looked away, pushing himself up.

"Wait."

He looked back in time to see Keith roll on his back—not solicitous like a cat seeking attention, but fast and frantic like begging or life-or-death. Shiro hesitated—long enough for Keith to catch him by the collar of his vest. He blinked down, watching Keith's mouth squirm as if it was being tortured.

The hand curled into a fist. "I didn't actually want you to atrophy."

Um. "Of course not." Should've gone without saying. "You were surprised." 

"Yeah, so, it was something I said." ...after which Keith averted his eyes. Hard. Grimacing at something Shiro couldn't see.

Oookay. This was weird.

"I know," he said, because it was, in fact, obvious—among other things, like Keith's frustration. Shiro observed him simmering in discontent, unmoving; tethered by the hand that held him there. In time, their eyes locked again.

Could use a lot of words to describe him: precarious and precocious, certain and uncertain. He stared at Shiro, hesitant in a way he rarely was; like he knew something important but wasn't sure how to impart the information. He thought (not for the first time) that stars belonged in his eyes—dark blue-verging-on-violet. Difficult to put one word to them. Easy to get lost there, not unlike the way he used to lose time to watching the night sky. Might seem distant and beautiful; unfathomable and clinical to someone who didn't know how to read them. Someone who didn't understand how lively things were in there. How hot and full of life. Like a memory flecked on his cheek, staining his skin countless light years away. 

Like something coming back. Something he hadn't wanted to happen and didn't want to remember. Not again. Not here. Not now.

Not now. Not with Keith.

They had called him _Champion_ like it was his name. 

"Shiro?"

Sometimes they fed him slaves.

"Hey." 

Why did he remember it like that? Fed. Like he was chomping them down and spitting their bones back up. 

"What's wrong?" 

The Galra slave had been quick to strike. It fought without fear, swift and vicious in ways that were familiar—but Keith was faster. He'd never have let anyone carve a canyon in his chest. 

" _Shiro-_ "

Skin: cold. Veins: frostbitten. Couldn't feel his heartbeat. Couldn't hear it, but he heard his breath shiver like a death rattle. 

Pain punched him in the nose.

Beneath him: " _Rrrgh!_ "

Shiro squeezed his eyes shut while he shook his head off like a dog smacked in the snout. When he opened them again, he was aware of his arms braced against the mat, suspending himself above Keith...whose face was inches—not inches; far too generous—whose face was close to his.

Panic set in: his mouth tightened as he shuffled through shards of memory, plucking at misplaced pieces of reality, trying to assemble them in coherent order.

Assessment: pain. Location: nose. Source: Keith. Motive: unknown. Keith's status: holding his own nose, otherwise unharmed. Clues: Keith's other hand still clutching his vest; the flush burning his pink face, which was turned away from him; the gritted teeth; the brows drawn with severity; the way he refused to look at him; the flustered-

New source of pain: his chest, throbbing with a dull ache that stole the breath from his lungs. Shiro went still, his stare glued to Keith. His skin tingled like a man about to be struck by lightning; his mouth dry like desert brush, anticipating fire.

"Oh," he said.

Rough like disaster: "Yeah." 

Keith released him, wriggling away to grant himself enough clearance to sit—and if Shiro knew anything about him, sitting would be followed by standing; standing by escaping. Would it be responsible to let him leave? To pretend nothing had happened? Allow volatile emotions to lurk beneath the surface of every interaction?

Maybe two years ago.

"Hold it," said Shiro, collecting himself in a kneel. 

Keith flinched into a freeze (not bleeding, Shiro noted; that was good), opening his mouth and then closing it. Shiro inched away the distance by the time Keith opened it again, blurting, "Look, just forget it. I kinda..." Another pause. "You weren't responding, so-" he didn't finish. He'd panicked, Shiro gathered. Hadn't known what to do when it happened outside of battle.

Back at the Garrison, he might have granted that request. "Keith, look at me."

He didn't—not until whirring white noise filled their silence, when metal fingers touched his chin and gently tilted his face back. He glanced to Shiro's hand and then to Shiro, brows knit as if looking for answers; any kind of context clue to help him fill in the blanks.

Shiro gave them: he traced the outline of his jaw, fingertips ghosting across the soft skin beneath it. Keith exhaled a quiet sigh, eyelashes lulling half-shut when the thumb brushed against his cheek. 

The arm had advantages: these fingers did more than nerves and flesh. Sensory information taken here was recorded; could be used to pave permanent paths neurological paths. More reliable than touch and the delicate, unstable construct of a human mind. It remembered what he was—what he was capable of doing—even though he didn't have direct access to that information himself. (Didn't he?)

He watched Keith's throat move when he swallowed, wondering how it would feel under his palm—less a desire to find out and more a wish to frame every movement as a memory he couldn't forget. Wanted to remember everything down to the seconds: the overwhelming heat like his heart had finally burst; the sweetness in Keith's expression when he closed his eyes all the way, leaning into a palm that could have crushed his bones; the way his breath became quicker when Shiro's hand tipped his chin and leaned in; the soft _mh_ that escaped parted lips when mouth met mouth; the firm insistence pushing back against him; the fog of breath shared between lingering kisses; the way he nipped Shiro's bottom lip; the way he'd tried to end the kiss by leaning back, but Keith had filled the space like liquid flames, surging to reclaim lost territory; the arms that snaked around his neck to keep him in place.

Dodged a bullet at the Garrison. How would one defend against this type of assault when it wasn't unwelcome?

In time, Keith broke away, pressing his forehead into Shiro's right shoulder, arms loosening as if the energy was sucked from his muscles.

Adrenaline rush must be wearing off. Shiro lowered his eyes, watching the top of his head while lifting his left hand, stroking the palm down his back.

This wasn't the place for...this. Reasonable expectation of privacy didn't exist anywhere in the castle, but it existed less-so on the training deck, even if no one else would visit during the designated night hours.

Fondness squirmed behind his ribs when he asked, "How's your nose?"

"Mm?" Then nothing. At least for a few seconds, like he had to remember he had one. "It's there." Keith lifted his head from where he'd hidden his face, eyelashes twitching before lifting, glancing up with an appealing absence of shyness. "Yours?" 

"Never better." Shiro turned his head toward the door before looking back to Keith. "You, uh, wanna talk?"

Keith didn't look at the door. He looked in a downward-left direction, where he sulked at nothing. "Not really."

Shiro waited, idly drumming a finger at his nape the way one might tap their own cheek in thought. 

A sigh and an addendum: "Kinda."

"Thought so." Shiro dropped a kiss on the top of his head before they went about the business of disentangling themselves from one another. Once they were standing, he said, "Let's walk a bit."

Like distant orbit, Keith replied, "Yeah, okay."

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More vomiting short chapters so I can move on since I'm an impatient self-editor.


	6. Control

  


  


  


They walked the corridors, followed by the echoes of their footsteps, talking.

"I think...no, never mind."

Correction: trying. They hadn't covered much ground in that area.

Keith's face was dim in the castle's night-light setting, but beyond that he couldn't make much of his expression. "What?"

Like warning fire: "It's not important."

"Who said it had to be?"

Keith turned his head to stare. "What?"

Shiro grinned, pretending not to notice. "You hear an echo in here?"

Which was when Keith disappeared from his peripheral. Shiro stopped, half-twisted to look at him. He looked thoughtful, as if performing hard calculations as he examined a side panel. He cocked his head and lifted his hand.

Three hard knocks shot through the hall.

Shiro's lips parted, but no words followed. He flattened his mouth. Hard. Because the alternative was-

"Yeah," Keith said.

-laughter. Not uncontrollable, but close. Shiro covered the lower half of his face to smother it.

They were in a place where sound only travelled far when carried via intercom—in some corridor that must have been filled with purpose in the distant past, but now passed time empty, explored only by Pidge.

But his concern was less for waking anyone and more with: " _What?_ "

"Sorry," said Shiro, once he'd snuffed the sound. "It was a joke."

Keith hadn't moved from the panel, hand still raised from where he wrapped his fist against it; expression vacant of all but the simplicity that didn't understand why a round peg couldn't be smashed into a star-shaped hole.

Shiro inhaled a deep breath. Beat the urge back down. Don't give in. "I was teasing you," he clarified.

"Oh." For a moment, nothing. It was like his reaction had been queued and was next up on the assembly line: Keith's mouth took a severe tilt toward _fuss_ —but he didn't get far before Shiro approached him, reaching his left hand to take his right.

He looked down like he'd never seen fingers before, then back up to Shiro.

Tonight—whatever passed for "night" in space—didn't feel real. Reality was painful, filled with unpleasant experiences that lived with him long after the others who shared them had expired.

This wasn't painful. It was overwhelming: a feeling of being laundered, put on tumble-dry, warming and softening the longer he endured it. Scrubbed all the spots away. Left him clean.

Keith squeezed his hand.

Would've felt the same if he'd clutched his heart instead.

"This isn't an evaluation, Keith. It's a conversation," said Shiro, who just remembered it was, in fact, a conversation. One likely to cover everything but the way Shiro wanted to cover him like a blanket. "Those can include ideas that aren't important."

Keith turned his head away, lips still wearing a faint frown—but when he looked back to Shiro, the lift of his brows made him uncertain. "I don't like small talk," he said, tentative like a test.

"Let me decide if it's small, yeah?"

Then he realised he was lucky Keith wasn't like Lance. He cleared his throat and turned from him, face heated with the embarrassment of _Why did I think that?_ and _What am I, twelve?_

" _Urgh,_ " Keith burbled, but added: "Fine." He allowed Shiro to lead him back down the hall, their hands still joined. Five steps later, he said, "I just thought...I should thank her."

Clarification failed to materialise. Shiro slowed his pace, waiting for Keith to fall in step beside him before fishing. "Allura?" He shook his head. "Pidge?" Another shake. "Red?"

"No," he said, lit with impatience. "Blue."

Shiro's brows jumped. "The blue lion? Lance's lion?" Like he might have made a mistake.

"I know what colour Lance's lion is, Shiro," he snapped, but he shut the door on the option of apology by adding: "It's just a hunch, but I think she...I don't know." His frown had vanished, but somehow its absence rendered a higher form of severity. "I can't explain it."

Ah. "You think she reached out to you."

"I don't know what I think," he said, flashing a _look_ at Shiro. "That's why I said it wasn't important."

"All the more important," said Shiro, impervious to meaningful glares. "Talk to me. Tell me what you've been thinking."

Five more steps passed in silence. "It's like you said. I mean, I thought of that, too, but if she reached out I would've heard her, right? In my head. But I didn't hear anything. I just...felt...stuff."

Shiro hummed a thoughtful note. "Not sure. It's possible only the chosen Paladin hears their lion."

"She's not that talkative anyway."

"Sounds like someone else I know."

Keith snorted, tipping a glance toward him. This look was from the past: a year of solitude and hardship undone to reveal one warm, relentlessly fond smile. "I'm talking right now, aren't I?"

It was difficult not to stare. "Maybe I want you to talk more often."

Because he was shrewd, Keith said, "With everyone?"

But he wasn't the only one. "Them too," said Shiro.

"You still talk about moderation? Gettin' pretty greedy."

"Nothing wrong with the occasional splurge."

"I'll remember you said that."

"Sounds like a threat." An effective one. One that made him neglect the absurdity of two Paladins of Voltron, awake when they should have been asleep because neither training nor battles would wait for them to be rested, willing to forego an hour or two to not-quite-flirt with one another.

"'Cause it is." Keith squeezed his hand afterwards, so faint Shiro hardly felt it. "...and thanks. I thought of that too, what you said. That Paladin-lion thing, but it's..."

He didn't finish. No problem. Shiro was happy to supply. "Nice to hear?"

"Yeah."

Must have been nice to know someone thought the same. That it wasn't just wishful thinking. "We could ask Allura."

Keith passed another _look_ at him, different from the others in that he'd gone sly in the eyes; his voice dropping to a rumble. "We?"

Oh.

_Oh._ Shiro straightened his posture as if walking in formation, not taking a casual stroll. "You." Felt too hot. "You can ask her." What was with that voice? "Or I can." And that look! Why did it have to happen here instead of somewhere away from surveillance? "You've got me curious."

He almost regretted saying it. Keith looked away from him, back down the hall. "You can do it. I'm not that interested."

A white lie: Keith had become brilliant through friendship, but part of him stood back, refusing to open to others.

"I'll let you know what I find," said Shiro.

To which Keith replied: "Don't got to. I'm not gonna change my mind."

"Found your answer, then?"

"I guess so." He didn't sound sure. "It's like..." Shiro felt him flex his fingers as if he'd forgotten he was part of a handhold. "Her energy was...adamant. I feel like I would've noticed. At the Garrison. Before." If he'd used his right hand instead... "Sometimes it waned." ...would it have noticed? Picked up the subtle beat of his heart. "Other times it was like I should've been able to see it." Would that have been a violation of privacy? "The source never changed but its intensity...was different. It was never that active in the cave."

What was wrong with him? Why did he think about that? "What do you think that means?" he said. 

In a deep, selfish way, he was aware he didn't want to hear the answer.

"I think she...she gave me a purpose," said Keith, who began to pull at Shiro's arm. Couldn't tell if he'd fallen behind or if Keith sped up. "On purpose. So I wouldn't-" he saw his shoulders tense; felt his hand clench, "I mean, she gave me something to do. So I wouldn't get bored. Stuff like that."

That was...the poorest lie he'd heard in quite some time.

Guilt gnawed him—not for the subject matter, but because Keith's instinct had been correct. He showed no reluctance to open himself—to talk about a deeply personal issue—but stumbled trying to cover his tracks, to shield Shiro from the truth.

That wouldn't do.

He'd have to do better. He was better. _Keith_ deserved better.

Softly, he said, "I should thank her, too."

They came to an abrupt halt when Keith stopped to swing a look over his shoulder, staring with startled eyes and tight-lined lips. "I, uh..." His focus jumped as he looked around them, all along the corridor, and then, "Hey, look!" He released Shiro's hand, abandoning him for a new discovery. "Was that there before?"

Shiro let him go. Should have done the same for the topic. Let him get away with it, but instead, he said, "Were we here before?"

Keith ignored him. "I didn't think this thing had windows."

He came to stand behind him, looking over Keith's head to face stars, galaxies, and constellations neither of them knew. "Portholes," he corrected, tone absent, a relic from days spent as a Garrison pilot and instructor. "They're probably covered most of the time."

But he didn't watch for long.

Inside his head, he reconstructed the theory of dark matter: he could observe the blackest spots of his memory, know where they were hidden based on the feelings that surrounded them; observing them through dust and detritus, never able to grasp them beyond impulse: _that couldn't be me_ ; _that wasn't me_ ; _that_ isn't _me!; _I'm not like that_ ; _no_ ; _no_ ; _no_ ; _no_ ; _no_ ; _no_ ; _no_ -_

"Shiro."

He found himself looking at Keith, who had turned to him, where he met concern and dire, austere sincerity—unflinching care that said no matter what happened, it wouldn't relent. "You all right?"

"I..." Shiro felt the slight sting lingering in his nose; the memory of a rough, firm mouth joined with his. Nothing else came to mind. Nothing else was necessary or important.

But he knew sentences beginning with _I_ required more than one word, so he said, "I'm sorry. About what happened."

Keith's expression flattened, like cats with their ears pinned back.

"Wait." Shiro lifted his hands, palms up like surrender. "Not that. Or this. Before."

"I know that." He recognised the belligerence and knew it was only respect that kept Keith from rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't do it if you'd be sorry."

Shiro didn't even try to keep the smile off his face. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. You think too much."

His laugh was quiet, like the accusation sucked his breath out. "I didn't think _that_ much."

"You never stop." Keith's face was like watching ice dissolve in hot water; his too-tense stance easing into a shape that looked like it belonged in his arms.

It occurred to him that wasn't a criticism.

"Maybe not," he admitted, daring to advance the one-two steps forward it took to place himself deeper into the sphere of personal space. Close enough to dip his head and press his forehead against the top of Keith's. "How long were you alone?"

"Eh. On and off."

"Exluding supply runs."

Dubious silence.

"Not helping," said Shiro.

Keith ducked beneath his chin, nudging his face into Shiro's shoulder. Muffled, the reply: "A year, more or less."

An queasy, unpleasant feeling settled in his stomach.

He didn't have to work hard to imagine Keith, who had no family and didn't keep friends—not because of his attitude, but his solitude—retreating to the desert. Took less effort to imagine him stalking through the sand, exploring caves and taking pictures of rocks. He could see him pacing through the night when he couldn't sleep, careless as to the tracks left because it didn't matter: no one would look for him.

At most an acquaintance might have wondered what had become of him, but who would have guessed he'd been living there? Facing dehydration, dust storms, and other elements in a rickety shack in the middle of nowhere; living off room-temperature canned food and bottled water, unable to do anything but focus on his obsession: pinpointing the location of an alien warship? How lonely had he felt when he searched the stars?

In a world where Keith wouldn't have to worry about Shiro's feelings—where he didn't think _will it bother him to hear this?_ —what would he have said about the Blue Lion?

_I think she saved me._

_I'm sorry,_ was what he wanted to say. Say it and never stop. But that wasn't helpful, was it?

"Must've been hard," he said, instead, pressing his mouth into his hair, bending his right arm at the elbow, palm pressed against Keith's lower back. Not perfect, but better.

Fingertips skimmed over Shiro's hip, flattening into a palm that smoothed up his chest. "It wasn't that bad, really."

"Quite the minimalist life you led out there. Very you."

Still not an ideal response, but it was the best he could do when most of his attention was devoted to not being distracted by the wandering hand slipping to the back of his neck.

"Survival's not complicated," said Keith.

Silence crept by, stealing some amount of time which neither seemed to count, but it wasn't long before Keith broke it, his voice hushed like confessions. "Used to wish I was a better student. A better pilot, who did what they wanted. Cared about the Garrison's vision as much as you. Thought if I could've been all that, it might've been me instead." The tranquility in his voice was equal parts mesmerising and upsetting. "It was really, really stupid."

"I don't think so," said Shiro, even though he felt like he'd swallowed a cup of gravel and glass. He pulled his head back so he could look down at Keith—who looked back up at him, puffing a soft _mh?_ of surprise when two arms enveloped him.

Shiro held eye-contact as he added, "But I'm glad wishes are only wishes."

Keith employed a less-used line of defense: he closed his eyes and leaned in. More than that, he remembered what to do with his other arm: it slipped up Shiro's back, joined by the other in a full hug.

It was a pleasant broil that made him feel like he was sweating beneath his skin; reminded him of young crushes, back when those feelings could be dismissed as _butterflies_ ; consumed his voice when he murmured, "When?"

"Not sure," said Keith, sinking harder. "Took a while figuring it out."

"Did you..." How to say...

"Nah. Wouldn't matter if I did, though."

"Think so?"

"Know so. Collateral damage. Might take a calculated risk with your future, but not with mine."

Funny to listen to this praise about his seemingly-legendary self-control when it felt like he was straining at the end of his leash like a starving dog. How long could he keep this up?

He watched Keith open an eye and look up at him, mouth curved around a curious sulk.

Which was when Shiro realised he was squeezing him. Hard. With his right arm. His eyes darted down the long corridor as he stepped away and let go, clearing his throat. "Let me walk you back? To your room."

After a beat, "Sure."

Nothing strange about the request. It was normal. Responsible, even. They should be in their rooms. Asleep in their beds. Beneath their own blankets.

  


  


  


It felt like no time had passed by the time they reached their destination. The walk was uneventful, filled with conversation about everything but the topic they barely managed to breach.

Keith's door was open because he stood in the entryway, looking at Shiro—who was stood two or so feet away. A safe distance. A good distance. A nice, respectable distance you could tell your mother about. "I had a good time," he said, which had Keith leveling him with a look—one that had Shiro rushing to add, "So, I guess I'll see- _hnf!_ "

What Keith lacked in strength he made up in velocity: he knew the angle at which he needed to lunge at someone twice his size; knew precisely how to leverage his weight as he swept in for the kill. In this case, the kill being...

"My room?" His voice glittered with innocence, like he hadn't hauled Shiro into his room with brutal efficiency and slithered behind him to block the door. "Nothing special. It's a lot like yours."

Shiro's eyes snapped to the panel, his throat drying out as he watched Keith paw it red like locked doors, stop signs, and the jacket he wasn't wearing. "Keith," he croaked.

Keith tipped his head. The smile he wore looked clever. Insidious. "Thirsty?"

"Not...not exactly what I was thinking, no." Was that...some kind of slang he was missing?

"I've got water."

" _Keith_."

Shiro watched Keith stalk a half-circle around him, standing his ground but turning to keep him in sight, as if unwilling to show his back.

"What?" said Keith.

But Shiro didn't have an answer. Not while two palms pushed him back, and back, and up against the door. He felt Keith fold into him; felt the kiss pressed over where his heart was buried beneath clothes, skin and scar tissue, muscle and bone; hidden but not invulnerable.

It stuttered. "I-I..." Not unlike his words. He inhaled a deep breath, holding it while he tried to collect his thoughts. "I wasn't waiting."

Intuition must have had limits: Keith leaned away from Shiro, squinting at him. "Uh. What?"

Impressive. Not many people could make _what_ sound like an entirely different word from the _what_ they'd just spoken. 

"You thought I was weird," said Shiro, the pinnacle of linear thought.

Keith's mouth twitched. "Still do."

Shiro paused. "All right, fair. I walked into that." Another pause, longer than the first. "But I wasn't waiting."

"I heard you the first time," said Keith, arching a brow. "Waiting for what?"

"You. At the Garrison." He had to get it out. "It wasn't like that." Clarify. "It didn't have to be." Set the record straight before... "I enjoyed our friendship." _Before._ "It could have stayed that way without going further than that. I wanted to help-"

"Shiro..." Keith cut him off, his expression grew tired, manifesting into the purest form of _are you serious right now?_ "I know. You're not a creep." His tone gingerly accepted Shiro's white flag. "But sometimes I kinda wish you were." ...and burned it, raising a red one in its stead.

Black hole singularity: time wrapped around them, lending strange gravity to Shiro's chest. Made him dizzy. Emotion swirled in his head, rattling down his spine till it coiled in his abdomen. Felt heat pulse through his body as he stared, trapped by Keith's eyes; felt his arms slip around his neck; watched his lashes lower—the way he nudged closer by rising on his toes, tipping his head as he purred, "Again?"

He heard his own voice like a whisper—a universe of sentiment crushed into one word: "Again."

  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day, once i finish the rest of this, i'm going to look back and wonder why i didn't edit more.
> 
> reminder to myself in the future: grow patience.


	7. Thermal

Shiro gasped. "Wait."

Darkness: visibility granted only by neon tubes, gleaming with bioluminescence. Keith's stare sparked, darting to Shiro's leg, from leg-to-arm, arm-to-chest, chest-to-face. He paused, then narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"It's..." ...a good question. One to which he didn't have the answer when Keith's palm slipped from his waistband, resting on his bare thigh. "We shouldn't."

Keith shifted, knees buried the sheets between Shiro's legs. "Because...?"

Because it was a bad idea.  
Because it wasn't a _good_ idea.  
Because he was still in a position of authority.  
Because they were at war; could be called to fight.  
Because all it took was a second's delay to lose a life.  
Because they could die.  


"Because it's a lot," Shiro said, swallowing the urge to surrender. "You sh—we should sleep on it." Approach it with clear heads, and if not those, then at least the right ones.

Silence thickened like smoke, but how toxic?

Shiro reached for-  
-Keith swatted the hand from his shoulder, stewing to a boil. "Fine."

Shiro's mouth twitched, tottering till it landed on an uneven smile. His hand hovered in the air, contemplating a safe place to park. He settled for the bed and turned to slide his feet to the floor. "Well," he said, "I'll-"

" _Stay_."

Pain pinched his bicep. Fabric swished as weight plunged closer and Shiro glanced over. Keith's bottom lip looked thin, like he'd sucked part of it in to chew, clutching his arm like a lifeline.

"Stay here," he said, voice weakening with his grip. "You said sleep. You can sleep. I'll sleep." By the time he'd finished, his palm had fallen to Shiro's elbow.

That was not conducive to clear thought.

His attention swayed along Keith's cheek, to his neck neck stained by crystal light, hotter than Eta Carinae, swallowed by... a shirt. Shiro dropped his focus, looking down his scarred skin. It ended at his briefs, beginning anew when they opened into legs. 

He whipped his head, staring at Keith. "You stripped me!" 

Keith arched a brow, expression suggesting he'd come around to the prospect of sleep now that Shiro had lost his mind. "Yeah, I did," he said, waving a gesture toward the floor. "You helped."

Shiro looked. 

Clothing: the massacre. It bled from the bed, sprawling a trail that led to the door. A pair of pants here, a sock there...where was the other one?

Well, no matter for the moment. He'd seen enough. "Guess I, uh. Lost track."

A sigh broke the way wars did. Keith crawled out of bed, brushing against Shiro's arm as he went to stand. The touch pulsed through metal. His eyes sharpened, piercing his—the arm. Why? 

"Doesn't matter," Keith said, clapping his hands on Shiro's shoulders. "Go to bed. 

It rattled the focus out of him; had him giving an inch when he was pushed back, wondering about something else: "Like _this?_ "

Keith stilled, looking at him like he was a multiple choice question.

Shiro gunned his fingers, aiming them at his bare chest and rotating toward likewise naked legs. 

"Oh," Keith said, failing to register any _-athy_ s on the scale of _sympathy_ to _apathy._ "How else?"

Shiro put the guns away. Figuratively. Couldn't do much about his arms. "Got anything that'll fit?" 

"Nothing you won't stretch. C'mon. Sleep on it already." 

This time, he went down without resistance. He ended on his back, a laugh in his voice when he said, "All right, okay—you win."

But there was a problem: even after he made himself comfortable, the mattress felt too light. He rose on his elbows, searching for—Keith stood across the small room beneath a bright burst of crystal light, fussing with something around his waist. "Keith?"

He perked like a cat who'd been called, glancing over his shoulder. "Yeah?" 

"Are you..." Shiro stopped, drawn into the shape of Keith's smile, how soft his eyes looked. Like warmth.

He almost missed the reply. 

"One sec. Gotta take this off first." 

  
  
  
  


This, it turned out, was his dagger.

He'd placed it on an inlet shelf before climbing into bed, liquefying against Shiro's side; half-tangled in a blanket not made to accommodate two, averting the risk of stabbing his bedpartner with a sheathed blade.

Shiro appreciated the thought. More than that: the heat it sparked in him. At some point, Keith lost interest in his pants and kicked them to the ground like an uninvited guest. That was a little harder to appreciate. 

Sleep didn't happen.

But after a while, Keith stirred. "It wasn't you," he said, breath rolling over Shiro's skin; more tinder for the fire. "I kinda...I didn't do so hot. Didn't listen. Argued. Stuff like that, but..." 

Silence. Shiro bent his arm to half-cradle Keith's head against his chest, waiting for fading words to sprout a new trail, dipping to rest a kiss in his hair. A sigh like peacetime entered the air, silent for a moment, then: "It wasn't you. I just—they lied about it. It was so obvious."

Come to think of it... "What'd they say?" 

"Officially? _Presumably pilot error._ "

Shiro clucked his tongue. "Not the worst. Pilot fatigue's been known to happen." 

"Not to you. Not like that."

Always adamant, protecting him from himself. Sometimes it felt like a noose. He combed through Keith's hair the way one might try to soothe a pet. "They couldn't know," he said, because truth or not, the Garrison hadn't had much in the way of answers.

Keith wasn't as merciful. "Official line's one thing. Everybody else talked a whole 'nother game." 

"Such as?" 

"It was always different, like it was—like you were a—a thing." He squirmed out of Shiro's hold, lifting his head to watch him.

No one said anything.

At least not until Shiro figured out no further words were coming. He frowned, then tried: "...an example?"

"No." Pause. "...yes." Another pause. Keith frowned back like a mirror. "But like, I meant something else."

That was helpful. "You, uh, got any hints?"

His brows took a tilt toward tizzy. "If I did I'd have told you already." Then, like lightbulbs and on-switches: "Wait. The bogus guy!" 

Shiro choked. "Excuse me," he said, masking it as a cough. "Sorry. The what?"

"The bogus guy," said Keith, filled with undeterred, oblivious honesty. "You know, the one under the bed?"

Getting harder to keep the tic from twitching his lips.

"He's not _actually_ under the bed," he added, helpfully. 

Shiro clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling his best impression of a genuine cough against it, taking time to clear his throat. This was killing him. Keith was killing him. Slowly. 

Adorably. 

"Bogeyman," he said, once it felt safe. 

"Yeah! The bogey guy or...whatever. They made you that." 

He didn't need to ask. He could imagine it like a memory he'd never had, clearer than any recollection from his past. It would have been...when? 

During a lecture, at least once before his discharge. Somebody—or a handful of somebodies—would have done something. Maybe they'd failed to answer a question they should have known at their rank. Maybe they'd bombed a group assignment. Maybe a lot of things, warranted or unwarranted, but one thing would have been the same: Keith wouldn't have started among the targets. Wouldn't have paid attention. Would have done as he often did: ignore authority when he thought it had nothing to do with him. 

Who had it been? What status? 

Perhaps a professor, but expulsion didn't fit their bill. Most likely: Iverson or someone like him. Someone who would have been taken aback by the open lack of respect in _Which is it?_ Someone who would have goaded him, dared him to repeat himself. 

Yeah. That felt right. 

The other cadets would have been silent, awed and grateful not to endure the particular fury Keith could invoke. Keith would have thrown a gas tank into the blaze, never considering a future beyond flames: _A month ago you said it was inadequate prep. Now you're saying they didn't work together. Which is it?_

He stopped there, electing instead to displace Keith for the purpose of turning them on their sides so he could cup his face in one hand. Keith's lashes shuttered-and-half-recovered, lulled by the fingers stroking his cheek. 

But it didn't last: like the blink of a blade, he said: "Don't." 

"Don't what?" said Shiro. 

"You were gonna say it." 

"What, that I'm sorry?" 

Keith wriggled away, pushing back far enough to give Shiro a good glower. 

And then he headbutted him, square in the chest. Cordially. 

Sound smashed from Shiro's lungs: a bark, then laughter as he circled his arm—Galran—around Keith, roping them together. He hid his face in the mess of dark hair mashed against him. "What was that for?" 

Sullen, muffled by the safety of a pectoral: "M'gonna do it every time you say it." 

"Ouch. Drip torture, huh?" 

"Get a nasty bruise if you keep it up." 

"Terrifying." He'd had worse. Out of all the tortures he'd endured, he'd pick this one again and again. 

Keith's arm snagged Shiro's midsection, tightening to crush the space between them. 

Sleep refused to happen. 

  
  
  
  


"I don't remember much about my captivity." 

Time had passed, but the reply came fast and frayed: "You don't have to." Worn by weariness that said he was alert only for Shiro's sake. "If you start we'll deal with it then." 

Sweet enough to make him wish he hadn't said anything. 

"No, no, I mean—you asked before. I didn't have an answer. Still don't have much, but I thought..." What had he thought? Hard to think, occupied by rubbing the length of Keith's back. Up-down, up-down, up-down, up-

Keith seized the buzzed hair at Shiro's nape, ruffling through it, tension draining with each word. "You don't have to answer. I don't mind." 

He was grateful for the darkness, for their closeness. Might have been overwhelming, gazing at the owner of such a tender voice in direct light. 

Might have made a mistake. Staying here. 

"I want to," he said, but he wanted more than that: desire haunted his hand, ghosting over the outline of Keith's body. "They...the Galra had favourites. Not many. They fell out of favour or died, but I..." He paused, closing his eyes, absorbing the affection when Keith began to pet him. "They'd send me to die, but after so long, it was...they started asking me things. What drinks or food I wanted. I had...a room. Not a holding cell. Not big, but mine. More than I can say for the rest." 

The petting stopped, but he didn't have a chance to miss it: Keith coiled him in another hug, tightening as he listened with the patience he didn't often offer.

Felt good. That silent support. "Soldiers congratulated me," he continued. "Talked to me. I wasn't..." Perhaps the most difficult thing to accept: "I wasn't disliked." 

"You feel guilty." 

Shiro flinched. 

A knuckle tapped against his back, _knock-knock_. "Even if you talked to them, liked some of them—so what? You were held against your will, Shiro. You adapted to survive. If you didn't, you'd die."

An opportunity for acceptance. All he had to do was open the door.

How had the Garrison kicked this person out? 

Why couldn't everyone see him? This unbelievable creature—imperfectly perfect—rough around the edges, filled with determination, conviction, compassion, _passion._ So many things no one had seen. Would that he could get them in a room together, all of them. He'd explain whatever they needed to hear so Keith would never be thrown away again. Tell them as many times as it took for them to see-

"I thought of you." Shiro's voice was thick with intent he could no longer gauge. 

Keith's breath hitched. 

"I didn't know how much time passed, but I knew you'd know I was..." 

Nails bore into Shiro's back. "It's n _ot_ your f _aul_ t," Keith said, tremors shaking his structure. 

Shiro's resolve was legendary: a man who could be trusted to safeguard secrets; will power built brick-by-brick through every form of hard work. A respectable tower who stood through the rubble caused by the poor decisions around him. 

And with a word,  
" _Takashi._ "  
he fell apart. 

Keith yelped once flipped on his back, his stare wide when they locked eyes. 

Shiro froze, dread sinking his stomach.

He'd made a mistake.

This was a mistake.

He—noticed the part of Keith's mouth; throat bobbing like a lure, chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm that promised to grow quicker. The slow, long blink; the tongue wetting his lips, dragging in one lazy lick. The low-set lashes, anything but guilty.

"Um," he said, heart banging against his ribs. 

Keith looped his arms around his neck and hauled him down. 

And then he said nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how to write but I'm done with this part. I must move on to the rest of everything else I keep rewriting. I HAVE TO BEAT S2.
> 
> The rating should change in the next chapter.


	8. Nocturnal

Words burned, melting to crude sounds intoned between their lips; every break a study in new ways to sever and solder over and over, over and over, over and-

Keith surged against Shiro as if fighting back with nothing but his face; his arms hooked around his shoulders, holding him closer than a grudge. It wasn't until Keith bit his bottom lip and _tugged_ that Shiro took the hint, bearing his weight against down; forcing him into the mattress and denying further bids at ascent.

He snuffed Keith's groan with his mouth, inhaling and holding it in his lungs—where it sparked a blaze in his blood. One that wouldn't leave bones to bury.

He pulled bac—  
—Keith dangled from his neck, puffing in protest. "No."

"No what?" Shiro set a palm against Keith's chest, pressing without force. 

Keith gave him slack, unwinding till his back hit the bed, fingers digging into Shiro's shoulders like anchoring himself there. He glared through half-lowered lashes. "Get back here."

Shiro pursed his lips, then said, "I didn't go anywhere."

"Yeah, well...you might."

"Why's that?"

Keith closed his eyes and frowned. He parted his lips, closed them, and parted them again. "Change your mind again."

Shiro went quiet. Keith's eyelashes shivered as if preparing to take flight—but he didn't lift them. "That, um, I didn't..." He trailed off, tone too worn to hold any fight. "I mean, if you do, I wouldn't like...you've been... ...you're the only...never mind."

Ah. 

Kill-shot.

He brushed his fingers against Keith's cheek, trying to discern whether Keith was watching him through his eyelashes. When Shiro pulled back, Keith released him; allowed him to loom. Allowed a lot of things: the palms smoothing down his chest; the fingertips wriggling over his ribs as they passed, even if he said " _Hgk—haha, don't you dare!_ " Allowed them to rest on his hips.

Which made for a difficult decision: higher or lower? Higher was tempting. Out of all the sounds he made, of sounds Shiro could imagine him making, if he had to choose one, he'd pick laughter.

But there was no limit to the noise Keith could make, like his name—" _Shiro_ "—faint between fast-paced breath.

Lower then.

He rubbed with pressure meant to be felt, petting his thighs till he decided to squeeze them, rolling his thumbs in lazy circles that traveled inward. Darker than six-feet-under, Shiro murmured: "Don't think I could."

Keith's sigh caught in his throat. His muscles tensed under Shiro's fingers, but it didn't stop him from slipping them beneath the snug fit of his undershorts. He fingered the hems, his mouth curving while Keith squirmed; inching higher, higher, higher-

Pressure squeezed his wrists like handcuffs. "Goin' somewhere?"

Shiro looked at the hands that bound him, then to Keith's face—and the slow smile languishing over his lips. "You look like a dog."

...

"Dog?"

"Yeah. A confused one."

"I do not." ...did he?

"Whatever you say."

Was that a joke?

What did he mean, confused dog? Was that a positive or negative connotation? He didn't say "puppy". Puppies are universally considered cute, even if one hated dogs. Then again, neither dogs nor puppies were particularly sexy, which—nope. Abort. No more thought. Not gonna ask. Especially not now that Keith's smile quirked into a smug smirk.

...

...

...

"Do I?"

Laughter lit the room when Keith tossed his head like the force of mirth was too much for his neck to bear. His hair wasn't long enough to fan around him, but it was sufficient for being disorderly like his conduct. His eyes crinkled at the corners once the laugh passed, touched by a fondness that couldn't be faked.

They searched each other in mutual silence. Keith made it hard to breathe—made heat flood more than Shiro's chest; made it radiate through the room like invisible sunlight; summer days in cool places. How did Keith feel? Was it the same?

Keith freed Shiro's wrists, pawing at his shoulders to pull him back down. "Now," he said. "Roll over."

Shiro stifled his laugh. "Trying to teach me a trick?"

"Never learned this one?"

"Maybe I forgot."

"You're not _that_ old."

"Count in dog years."

Keith's breath puffed like _pfffff-fff-fff_ as he wrenched his weight, trying to whirl them around by himself. "Roll _over._ "

There were worse things than trading places with the handsome young man sliding into place at his waist, perched like there was nowhere else for him to sit. "See? Knew you could do it." His palms _crack_ ed against Shiro's stomach when he slapped them down, rub-rub-rub-rubbing. "Good doggy."

Shiro choked, fastening his hands to Keith's knees like that might somehow inspire him to behave. "I can't believe this."

Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-rub-rubrub _rub,_ pause. Keith cocked his head. "What?"

"You're flirting with me."

"I am, huh?" Nonchalance—or something disguised that way. It wasn't convincing when Keith's mouth kept wiggling, trying to break into a grin.

Not that Shiro wasn't having the same problem. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe. Could've been somethin' else."

"Like what?"

"Rewarding you. For your good behaviour—by the way." He patted the backs of Shiro's hands. "Don't get comfortable. I'm not staying."

"Oh?" Shiro lifted an eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

"Well..."

Gooseflesh plucked at Shiro's shoulders, tingling under the breath spilling on his neck. Kisses dotted his jaw, one-two-three, distinct and precise—like a mission, bombs and heat. He tipped his chin, surrendering to the teeth scraping along his throat; grunting a _ngh_ when Keith bit his collarbone.

He clutched a fistful of shirt between Keith's shoulder blades, propping himself up with his left arm—just enough to watch the trail of clumsy lick-bite-bite-licks travel down his chest, marking him with his tongue, exposing wet skin to the cool air. He exhaled a soft laugh when Keith paused to bite at one of his ribs, lick an apology, and sink further.

Keith's shirt also traveled, sliding up his back, revealing a stretch of skin that drew Shiro's attention like a beacon. It'd be easy to get rid of. Rip it off. Cut it off. Yank— _ask him to take it off like a civilised human being._ "Keith." It was all he managed to say. He curled his fist tighter, tugging on the fabric—which was when he felt Keith's mouth move on his stomach, not like a kiss, but a smile. He bent his back out like a cat and lifted his arms, happy to assist with removal.

It crumpled to the floor, joining the rest of the clothes.

Shiro found something else to do with his hand: he combed through Keith's hair, sighing when felt teeth on his hip, followed by the lash of a lick as Keith descended below his navel, where—wait. "Hold on." 

Keith glanced up, hazy like daydreams; wayward mouth hovering over the waistband of Shiro's briefs, inches from swelling fabric. "Hm?"

He looked so good—made Shiro's heartrate spike by sight alone. Had half a mind to tell him, which was why he said, "When did you learn this?" and widened his eyes, sputtering, "Er," and then "I, uh," and then silence, because the other half of his mind ceased to function.

Keith's stare became the leading cause of heart failure. His pulse pounded in his chest as Keith raised his brows and parted his mouth to answer.

By leaning down and biting his waistband...

Air. Disappeared from his lungs. Made it hard to think. "That wasn't what I-"

...and pulling back.

Their eye-contact dropped, observing the half-a-hard-on grow a mind of its own and peek over the waistband tick-tick-tick like the second hand of a clock. Shiro's mouth tightened, frozen in a 20:10:70 concoction of interest-horror-arousal, looking from cock to Keith—to the stretched waistband between his teeth and where the corner of his lips curved like mischief.

Then he let go.

The waistband _snapped_. Shiro hissed between his teeth, eyes squeezed shut; brows knit over his newest crisis: he liked that.

He _really_ liked that.

From his groin, hot on his skin: "I'm not a kid."

Not what I meant—a distant thought obliterated by the heat spreading in the fabric cradling his balls. Shiro swallowed as he felt Keith's lips move, nipping without teeth as if engaged in confidential communication that left Shiro with nothing but the carnal details. Blood rushed south fast enough to leave him dizzy. He inhaled a deep breath and held it, daring to open his eyes and sneak a look down at Keith, to his cocky—self-satisfied smile, eyes sharper than his dagger.

"Okay," Shiro wheezed. "Okay. Stupid question."

"Sure was." Keith made himself comfortable, stretching one arm to rest right below Shiro's stomach. The other folded on his thigh, bending at the elbow so he could rest his chin in his palm, conspicuously inconspicuous. Like this was a normal place to settle down to have a rest. Make some small talk. Nice stars out there tonight. Real nice weather out here in outer space.

He glanced down at Shiro's dick, inches from his face. "Soooo..."

Oh, no.

That tone.

"Soooo," Shiro echoed, careful and measured—but his face felt tight. His mouth made an even tighter line as he stared down with tightly-knit brows, right into the clever curve of Keith's smile.

"Looks like you gotta problem."

"Singular?"

The smile cracked into teeth. "Man, that's rough. You ever hear problems don't cancel each other out?" He smacked a sympathy-pat on Shiro's thigh, unrepentantly unhelpful. Shiro grunted in what he hoped sounded like assent—ah.

They watched his cock stiffen, standing proud for the moment before gravity kicked in and left it unable to sustain its own weight, sending it toppling onto Shiro's stomach.

"Well," said Shiro, whose face was made from fire. "That happened."

Keith whistled a long, low note. "Too bad I can't think of a way to help."

"I've got an idea." Third problem: the burn felt like it was reaching second-degree.

"Oh yeah?"

He slipped his hand from Keith's hair, palming the underside of his chin instead. He brushed his thumb—smooth, metal—across his bottom lip, watching his tongue lick at it like a flame as it passed.

A shiver rippled through him, his shaft twitching like anticipation and agitation all the same. He reclaimed his hand to squeeze his fingers around its base, stroking the length to harden the last traces of pliancy before he angled himself, nudging the head against the seam of Keith's mouth.

Keith lowered his lashes, humming a shock over his skin—too faint to accomplish anything but driving him crazy.

All right. He deserved this. He could admit it. Shiro grunted a hard, haggard sound like something dragged through sand and rocks, sighing through the resistance as he raised his hips, breaching the smooth seal created by Keith's lips.

Keith's hands were rough when they seized him, kneading like a stress-ball rather than stroking him. Shiro's breath broke like cracks in pavement, sifting through his gritted teeth. Before he accomplished anything, Keith released him with an inelegant _pop!_

"Mnh," said Shiro, because the cold air on his cockhead left him wanting. He chased Keith with his eyes—finding the scowl aimed at his dick, as if it had just spit in his face. Which was... _which was_ -

It twitched again. What was _wrong_ with it? With him. A groan stirred in his throat, although whether from sensation or himself was something he didn't know.

"...ould tak.....off," said the sound registered by his ears. 

He blinked. "Say again?"

Keith lifted one hand: five light fingertips, the rest swallowed by black. He curled his fingers, as if honking something. "You want me to jack it like this?"

"Not really," said Shiro, too heady to pretend to sound scandalised.

A snort, but no other reply. Keith removed one glove, squeezing Shiro in his bare hand; hotter than anything he'd experienced while handling himself. He endured the temptation to close his eyes, resisted the urge that boiled in his blood as Keith bit the other glove, pulled it off, and tossed it. The one that said: forget the hands and mouth. Take him. Crush him. Become one: a panting, writhing mess of heat and muscles.

Shiro gasped, jolted by what felt like a slap on his cock. Light. Not unpleasant. _Pap, pap, pap_ tapped along with the sensation where Keith drummed the head against his cheek as if it was nothing more than a thoughtful finger. 

It left a gleaming splotch behind.

Shiro's mouth dried like a cactus patch before it watered. He twisted his brows, helpless against the smile splitting his face. "Keith."

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

This was absurd.

Completely ridiculous.

And it utterly, hopelessly turned him on.

"No clue," said Keith, still eying his cock. "Never done this before."

"You— _ah_ —don't have to-"

Keith wrung a moan from his lungs, gagging him. "I want to," he said.

It was better. Slick. Calloused palms added to the pleasure, sleek with the fluid beading at the tip of his cock. Felt like a blackout when Keith took him into his mouth, twisting his hands on his shaft like unscrewing pipes; working him into a desperate, cloying need that made him pant, tangling his hand in Keith's hair.

Pressure: drip-and-drop, building. High, high, high, higher—muscles tightened. Lightheaded from the air, the in-out, in-out, in-out, in-out. Tension: near-snapping, drip-by-drip, drops added. Stacking and stacking. He curled a white-knuckled fist at the back of Keith's neck. The growl it provoked reverberated through him, passing the way shadows fall. Close.

Shiro jerked upright, but sitting didn't accomplish much but encourage the mouth around him to sink further. "Keith," he said, breathless, and then there was nothing: his spine curved in with violent force as he seized his own thighs, denting his fingers into them to keep him from pushing Keith down. _Want_ pulsed through his cock, twitching in fervent agony; his hips bucking as if trying to reach the mouth that had abandoned him, or prompt the hand clenching him at the base of his shaft to move. Anything but nothing.

He inhaled a deep breath, trying to ignore the discomfort twisting inside his balls. "Please," he said, need washing the word into a whisper.

He lifted his lids—and locked eyes with Keith, who must have been watching him with that wide stare even if he glanced away like pretending it was a coincidence. He bowed his head nearer, pressing his mouth to the swollen head in an austere kiss, as if kisses could make it better. "Feel it," he said.

Shiro's breath jammed in his throat. "...what?"

"Your pulse." Keith snuck a glance at him. "I feel it."

Movement—the subtle parting of lips. "Wait," Shiro said, a moan hooked from somewhere in his diaphragm—but Keith didn't wait. Took him deeper, where pressure squeezed like a vise around him.

Pleasure scorched constellations through his nerves; tore from sole-to-groin, groin-to-navel; stole his body, took control; thrust his hips, killed the lights in his head, conscious thought gone AWOL. Like all vacations, it didn't last: he was back sooner than he was aware he'd wanted. He felt his chest heaving; the itch of sweat-flecked skin; and allowed himself to revel in the pleasant tingle the strength of release had left in its wake.

" _Urgh._ "

One-by-one, the lights came back, restoring him from mindlessness. He opened his eyes, unaware he'd shut them again. Keith had recoiled, now seated on the bed with one hand covering his mouth as he coughed.

What was the proper protocol for this?

"You, uh, you okay?" He inched nearer to Keith's side, reaching to give him a few firm pats on the back. To help.

"Ye _gurh_ —ugh, _yeah_ , just," it didn't help. The coughs kept coming.

It felt wrong. Feeling hot about someone he cared for choking on his cock. "Sorry," he said, voice soft. "Didn't quite get the warning out."

No headbutt, which meant one of three things: Keith was too occupied; thought the apology was warranted; or flat-out forgot the threat. Whatever the case, Shiro had work to do.

He assessed the damage: fluid smeared above Keith's chin and another streak blotted his cheek. His eyes glittered, looked wet, but aside from tears, they were fine. Didn't seem to be anywhere else. Where did it g—oh.

Desire and fascination churned in his stomach as he touched Keith's face again, brushing his thumb over his cheek to wipe the evidence away—or would have wiped it away if Keith hadn't caught him with his mouth and sucked it off. Shiro stilled like a rabbit in the face of an oncoming train, paralysed by attraction.

Keith released him. 

All right. Take-two: he swiped himself from Keith's chi—mouthed again. He popped his thumb out from between Keith's lips and willed his refractory period to last. "...good?"

Keith glanced away like chasing a thought. When his attention snapped back, he said, "Different."

"Bad different?" Sampling himself was never on any menu.

"You know that cleaning stuff we used? Back home. Kinda like how that smells."

Shiro made a face. "Should've spit it out."

"In what towel?"

Shiro's left eyebrow existed outside the jurisdiction of time, rising at the speed of sunrise. "Could've used tissue."

Now Keith made a face: his brows knit a frown, voice rising with a combative edge. "Where was I supposed to get _those?_ "

"From the dispenser? You were over there earlier."

The edge dulled. "I was?"

Tight-lipped silence. Shiro gestured across the room, to the inlet shelf where Keith had left his dagger. If one paid attention they might have seen the square dangling down—not far, but visible enough to announce its existence, boasting: This Is Where Tissues Happen Because, In Spite Of Our Advanced Technology, Nothing Is Quite So Effective As A Tissue When You Sneeze.

"Oh," said Keith.

Shiro took a moment to tuck himself back into his briefs.

Once situated, he said, "Come here."

"What? I'm already here."

"Closer." Shiro moved to collect Keith in his lap and pull him in for a brief kiss, breaking away right after.

Couldn't take downtime for granted. Wouldn't do to get lost in kisses and get called to fight, leaving Keith with two problems of his own.

He split Keith's legs and sank into the bed, leaving him straddling his stomach. Keith looked down with heavy-lidded eyes and half-parted lips. It made Shiro reconsider the lighting. Next time they'd have to be on. He'd have liked to see Keith's face without the cover of darkness. What signs was he missing?

No matter. "Well, you know what's next, right?"

At least he could see Keith's up-turned brows; the way he glanced away for less than a second before saying, "Nnnno?"

"Here," Shiro said, gripping Keith's ass. Firm—no surprise there. Tight—a thought that sent signals to his passive cock. Worse than that was the _nnh_ when Keith rolled his hips. Made him feel like he was sweating again, scolding a bad dog. _Down. Stay down. ...good._

For a moment, nothing. 

Keith broke the silence. "So, now what?"

Whiplash: he yelped when Shiro yanked him, slamming his hands against the wall where a headboard might have been if they were on Earth. Shiro wedged Keith's knees beneath his arms, pulling him till he sat flush on his chest instead.

"Rule of reciprocity," said Shiro. "How'd you plan on handling this?" One finger invaded Keith's waistband and pulled back.

Keith's eyes widened. "I..." False start. "I, uh..." Shiro snapped the band back against his waist. " _Hnh_ —I didn't think this far."

Shiro exhaled a breathy laugh, dusky like twilight—and then he pulled Keith out to swallow him.

A shredded _ah!_ clawed from Keith's throat; his back arching inward hard enough his spine popped. He spread his fingers against the wall while Shiro took him till there was nothing left to take. Keith mangled a taut, tortured sound—followed by a _thunk_ loud enough that Shiro looked up.

Keith had dropped his head against the wall, eyes screwed shut, digging his teeth into his bottom lip.

Couldn't decide what he liked best—he liked everything. Loved how he didn't make much noise beyond tattered breaths and an occasional growl. Made him sound sweeter when his legs trembled, mewling he raked his nails against the wall; his hips failing to buck, anchored by an iron grip that refused to let them move.

Did he enjoy the restraint? Felt like he did: the whines began to stutter; each note he hit rattled with shivers. It inspired Shiro's thoughts to wander: what other sounds could he drive from Keith later? What would those nails feel like clawing down his back instead? How would those whimpers taste in his mouth?

Didn't take long for the spasms trying to work their way out from Keith's hips, failing in merciless stillness. A deep, mournful moan rasped against the wall.

He felt heat in his throat, bypassing the issue of taste—which, too bad. Maybe he'd try again later to see if Keith was right. Shiro moved, slipping the cock from his mouth as he dropped his head back into the mattress, releasing Keith so he could wipe his lips with the back of a hand.

Because he was nothing if not an upright man, he helped Keith back into his undershorts. Then he gave him a friendly pat (" _Ghk!_ ") for a job well done.

Aside from sound, Keith didn't complain. Shiro watched him breathe, palms roaming the length of his thighs again and again for no reason other than to touch; listened to broken sound transform to something whole, becoming something lighter.

When Keith heaved a sigh and cracked his eyes open, mumbling something Shiro couldn't hear. "Hm?"

"Said you look good."

"You too. I could get used to this." To other things.

"...yeah." Keith pushed from the wall, collapsing like it was all that kept him in corporeal form. He melded into place between Shiro's right arm and chest.

Shiro held him in a half-hug, absorbing the peace brought from skin-against-skin. He felt Keith's body move as he breathed, aware that his own heart began to exist in strange places: it hammered his eardrums; throbbed in his throat; pounded a beat that echoed through organs and spread through his blood, left him aching with more than baseline desire.

"You better," Keith said, some time later.

"Better what?"

"Get used to it. I gotta get you back."

"For what?"

"What you did."

"You did the same thing! You did it first."

"Not like that. Not as fast."

"It's not a competition," said Shiro, unable to keep the laughter from his voice. "Besides, I liked it."

"You're too big."

"Thanks. I think?"

Soft, almost sheepish: "...I liked it. Even the, uh, that one part. It wasn't _that_ bad, except that whole coughing thing."

Any more talk like that and he'd be in trouble. "Sleep," he said.

Sleep didn't happen—not for Shiro, not right away.

He was busy measuring the steady rhythm of sleep once Keith drifted off, thinking back to a time when the most illicit thoughts he'd had were of holding him. When he couldn't imagine any path that led to where he was now.

He pressed his cheek into Keith's hair, gentle to avoid waking him, lamenting the necessity of sleep.

But it would be fine.

He'd have time to kiss him once he woke up.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here i am, vomiting these redundant words while i'm too tired to say "no, close it out and edit more later" and ending at chapter 8 as i pretend i won't write them banging later even though i will because i have a sheith disease.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Emissions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031061) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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